"For aught that ever I could read,
Could ever hear by tale or history,
The course of true love never did run smooth."
This much she knows; and to any one blessed with a vision sharp as hers it is very apparent now that there is a roughness somewhere. She knows too, through many works of fiction, that those in attendance on loving couples should at certain seasons see cause to absent themselves from their duty, and search for a supposititious handkerchief or sprain an unoffending ankle, or hunt diligently in hedgerows for undiscoverable flowers. Three paths therefore lie open to her; which to adopt is the question. To return to the house for a handkerchief would be a decidedly risky affair, calculated to lead up to stiff and damning cross-examination from the aunts, which might prove painful; to sprain an ankle might prove even painfuller; but to dive into the innocent hedgerow for the extraction of summer flowers, what can be more effectual and reasonable? she will do it at once.
"Oh, what lovely dog-roses!" she says, effusively, in a tone that wouldn't have deceived a baby; "I really must get some."
"Let me get them for you," says Desmond, gloomily, which she at once decides is excessively stupid of him, and she doing all she can for him too! She tries to wither him with a glance, but he is too miserable to be lightly crushed.
"No, thank you," she says; "I prefer getting them myself. Flowers are like fruit, much more enjoyable when you pick them with your own hands."
So saying, this accomplished gooseberry skips round the corner, leaving Monica and Mr. Desmond tete-a-tete.
That they enjoy their sudden isolation just at first is questionable: Monica discovers blots on the perfect horizon; and Mr. Desmond, after a full minute's pause, says, reproachfully,—
"You didn't really mean that, did you?"
"Mean what?" uncompromisingly, and without changing position.
"That even if matters had been quite—quite comfortable with us, you would not have gone to meet me at the river?"