"Do come away. One would think there wasn't a gardener about the place. You will make yourself ill, kneeling there in the sun; and look how warm you are; it is a positive shame."
"But I have preserved the lives, and the beauty of all these little plants."
"Never mind the plants. Think of your own beauty. I came here to ask you if you will come for a walk in the woods. I have just been there, and it is absolutely cool."
"I should like to immensely," springing to her feet; "but my hands,"—hesitating,—"what am I to do with them? Shall I run in and wash them? I shan't be one minute."
"Oh, no!"—hastily, having a wholesome horror of women's minutes, "come down to the stream, and we will wash them there."
This suggestion, savoring of unconventionality, finds favor in Miss Chesney's eyes, and they start, going through the lawn, for the tiny rivulet that runs between it and the longed-for woods.
Kneeling beside it, Lilian lets the fresh gurgling water trail through her fingers, until all the dust falls from them and floats away on its bosom; then reluctantly she withdraws her hands and, rising, looks at them somewhat ruefully.
"Now, how shall I dry them?" asks she, glancing at the drops of water that fall from her fingers and glint and glisten like diamonds in the sun's rays.
"In your handkerchief," suggests Guy.