"How has he been kind to you?"
"Oh, in many ways."
"He has brought you a cup of somebody else's tea, I suppose, and has probably trotted after you with a camp-stool; is that kindness?"
"If one is hot or tired, yes."
"You are one of the most grateful specimen of your sex. I wish there was anything for which you might be grateful to me. But I am not great at the petits soins business."
"I shouldn't have thought so this afternoon," says Monica, maliciously, "when you were happy with Olga Bohun. But see, the moon has risen quite above the elms. I must go."
"Not yet. There is something else. When am I to see you again?—when?"
"That is as fate wills it."
"You are my fate. Will it, then, and say to-morrow."
"No, no!" exclaims she, releasing her hands from his, "I cannot indeed. I must not. In being here with you now I am doing wrong, and am betraying the two people in the world who are most kind to me. How shall I look into their eyes to-morrow? No; I will not promise to meet you anywhere—ever."