"Who's whistling?" asked he.
"Dicky Browne. He brought me here."
"Browne!"
"Yes." She smiled at him. "He said he knew you would shoot him for it. But he has been so kind. I couldn't have come but for him. I do so like Dicky, don't you?"
"Yes. But you mustn't like him too much."
"There is only one person in the world I like too much. But you must confess that Dicky was very good to me to-night."
"I know. But"—impatiently—"I wish there was no need for any one to be good to you except me. However, I am grateful to him. And so long as you love me—you do love me, Agatha?"
"You know it."
"Still, it is so good to hear. Forgive me. I'm a jealous fool. I wish we had never to part again. And soon," said he quickly, eagerly, "you will be my very own. I shall succeed. I shall conquer fortune. I know it. I feel strong." Indeed he looked strong as he stood before her with his hands on her shoulders, and his dark, brilliant eyes full of life and hope. "Before I met you I hardly cared for success. My work was sufficient for me. But now—-" He swayed her softly, tenderly, to and fro and laughed aloud. "What fool said that love ruined genius? I tell you, you have given me genius—you that are the soul of me—I shall win."
He insisted on taking her out—solely against her will—to where Dicky was waiting for her. That worthy had retreated behind a laburnum-tree, and it was only when she called his name carefully that he consented to show the tip of his nose.