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"Oh, it was very kind and polite; but it was not such a tremendous thing, after all," answered Isola, still occupied with the Persian. "He could hardly stand by and see one drowned. You have no idea what the rain was like."

There was a great over-blown Dijon rose nodding its heavy head over the fence. Roses linger so late in that soft western air. Lostwithiel plucked the flower, and pulled off its petals one by one as he walked towards the village street.

"My dear one, you are looking very ill," he said, with an anxious air.

"Grey! A dowager's colour, a soured spinster's colour—a Quaker's no colour. I detest grey."

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