It comes to the same thing, but you--you have no cause." "I should have if I danced," says she, "and I couldn't bear the after reproach, so I don't do it." "And yet--yet you would _like_ to dance ?" "I don't know----" She hesitates, and suddenly looks up at him with eyes as full of sorrow as of mirth.

"At all events I know _this,"_ says she, "that I wish the band would not play such nice waltzes!" Hardinge gives way to laughter, and presently she laughs too, but softly, and as if afraid of being heard, and as if too a little ashamed of herself.

Her color rises, a delicate warm color that renders her absolutely adorable.
"Shall I order them to stop ?" asks Hardinge, laughing still, yet with something in his gaze that tells her he _would_ forbid them to play if he could, if only to humor her.
"No!" says she, "and, after all,"-- philosophically--"enjoyment is only a name." "That's all!" says Hardinge, smiling.

"But a very good one." "Let us forget it," with a little sigh, "and talk of something else, something pleasanter." "Than enjoyment ?" She gives way to his mood and laughs afresh.
"Ah! you have me there!" says she.
"I have not, indeed," he returns quietly, and with meaning.

"Neither there, nor anywhere." He gets up suddenly, and going to her, bends over the chair on which she is sitting.
"We were talking of what ?" asks she, with admirable courage, "of names, was it not?
An endless subject.