Bobbie Vernon, who was artistic, was holding an ardent though intermittent discussion with Constance on the merits of old pictures and new.

Pryce occasionally took part in it, but only, as Sorell soon perceived, for the sake of diverting a few of Connie's looks and gestures, a sally or a smile, now and then to himself.
In the middle of it she turned abruptly towards Sorell.

Her eyes beckoned, and he carried her off to the further end of the garden, where they were momentarily alone.

There she fell upon him.
"Why did you never write to me all last winter ?" He could not help a slight flush.
"You had so many friends without me," he said, stammeringly, at last.
"One hasn't so many old friends." The voice was reproachful.

"I thought you must be offended with me." "How could I be!" "And you call me Lady Constance," she went on indignantly.