"Well, sir," said Miss Stirling, after a moment's silence, "what can I do for you—or, rather, what can I do with you?"
"Treat me just faintly nice."
"Oh," she said, looking at him through half-closed eyes, "is that it; humble, this morning!"
"Yes, humble, grovelling, anything to win your favor."
She turned, and they passed slowly among the flowers.
"Is humbleness the way to win a woman's favor?" she asked.
"I do not know. It seems to me the proper way—or, if not proper, the more expedient way. Perchance, you will tell me."
A faint smile crossed her lips. "I?" she said. "I can tell you nothing. My favor is not for your winning, Mr. Herford, nor for any one's else in the Colony." She stopped, and plucked a rose. "Come, come, sir, be sensible! Why cannot you be alone with me without thinking of favor or love? Enjoy the morning, and the flowers, and these beautiful gardens, sweeping away to the Severn, and the golden Severn itself, or the silver Severn, whichever way you will have it; I am not particular."
"Do you mean," he said, with a laugh, "that I should go down and throw myself off the dock?"