"I don't know," in a low tone.
"Say you didn't mean it."
"I—suppose I didn't," even lower.
"Look at me, then," says Mr. Desmond.
Kit, in her high, sweet voice, is warbling that little, pretty thing about a "lover and his lass," in the next field. The words of her song, and its silly refrain of
"A hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,"
come to them across the corn and scented meadow. Monica, with her hand in his, smiles faintly.
"You hear what she sings,—'that life is but a flower:' is it wise, then, to set your heart upon——"
"You?"
"I meant, an impossibility."