"It's a pleasure," insisted Eustace, putting on his cap, and being thus obstinate Mildred let him have his own way. She was even secretly pleased, as she liked Eustace extremely.
They stepped out into the moonlight, and took their careful way between the haycocks. The night was very still. Occasionally there would float towards them an outburst of song from the copse-hidden nightingales, diversified by the hoot of an owl, or the whirr of a distant train steaming towards London. Mildred had simply thrown a lace shawl over her head to run across to the Shanty, and her face looked wonderfully pure and white in the ivory radiance of the moon. Eustace felt his pulses throb with suppressed excitement, and the blood tingled pleasantly in his veins. He was in love with Mildred, he was jealous of Darrel, and these passions lifted him somewhat out of his usual self. The romance of San Francisco appeared the veriest prose beside this lyrical night. Yet he felt that he could not break in upon the grief of the girl with his tale of love, and so walked sedately by her side, holding himself well in hand.
As they passed into the lane, and under the chequered shadows of the elms, Mildred felt the influence of her companion. She was not in love with Jarman, or with anyone, but she liked and admired him immensely, and, granted that the fairy prince did not come along, was not unprepared to listen should he speak. Still, the feeling of sorrow for the death of her brother lay heavily upon her, and she sighed as the cool night wind ruffled her dark hair. After a time, to break the silence, she asked Jarman about the new secretary.
"Mrs. Perth told me that he was very handsome," she said.
"Oh, he's good-lookin' enough," replied Eustace, "but his spectacles rather spoil him. Weak eyes, you know."
"I was not aware that you intended to engage a secretary."
"I have so much work to do."
"You might have engaged me," said Miss Starth, reproachfully. "I can type quite as quickly as you can dictate, and you know I am always glad to assist you."
"I know that," said Jarman, suppressing a strong inclination to take her in his arms. "We have done some work together."
"_You_ have. I don't know what I should have done without you to correct my verses and help me to get them printed. I was only sixteen when I showed you my first poem."