"By the way," said the doctor, as he sat down in the dining room of the Victoria and ordered tea, "I've been thinking it over. I said, that day at Surbiton, ‘There’s many good things in life, but there’s only one best, and that’s the wild-haired girl who’s pulling away at that oar. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck. I will be as silent as the grave. She stood there with white set face and nervously clenched fingers. And what was singular she did not recount to the doctor that morning's adventure. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall.
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