He smiled. "Do you remember what the Frenchman wrote--_et pain ne voyent
qu'aux fenetres?_ There is not an enormous difference between me and the
tattered rascal of Chepe, for we both stare longingly at what we most
desire. And were I minded to hunt the simile to the foot of the letter,
I would liken your coquetry to the intervening window-pane,--not easily
broken through, but very, very transparent, Anastasia."

"You are not overwhelmingly polite," she said, reflectively; "but, then, I
suppose, living in the country is sure to damage a man's manners. Still, my
dear Orson, you smack too much of the forest."

"Anastasia," said Lord Rokesle, bending toward her, "will you always be
thus cruel? Do you not understand that in this world you are the only thing
I care for? You think me a boor; perhaps I am,--and yet it rests with you,
my Lady, to make me what you will. For I love you, Anastasia--"

"Why, how delightful of you!" said she, languidly.

"It is not a matter for jesting. I tell you that I love you." My Lord's
color was rising.

But Lady Allonby yawned. "Your honor's most devoted," she declared herself;
"still, you need not boast of your affection as if falling in love with me
were an uncommonly difficult achievement. That, too, is scarcely polite."

"For the tenth time I ask you will you marry me?" said Lord Rokesle.

"Is't only the tenth time? Dear me, it seems like the thousandth. Of
course, I couldn't think of it. Heavens, my Lord, how can you expect me to