"But you denied yourself all manner of nice things to buy it for ME," finished Lesbia, pressing a kiss on his willing cheek.

"No, dear, no," he said valiantly, "only a few pipes of tobacco."

"You dearest donkey," cooed the girl, more touched than she chose to confess, "doesn't that show me how you love me. As to the ring," she surveyed the cheap trinket critically, "it is exactly what I wanted. The stones are the colour of your dear eyes."

George, man-like, was delighted. "You know the colour of my eyes?"

Lesbia boxed his ears delicately. "I knew the colour exactly one minute after our very first meeting."

"Did you love me then?"

"No. Certainly not: how conceited you are."

"Then why did you notice my----"

"Oh, a woman always notices these things, when a man is nice."

"And you thought me nice?"

Lesbia fenced. "Good-looking, at all events. You wore a dark flannel suit striped with pale green."

"So I did," cried George, delighted, "it was at Mrs. Riordan's picnic near Bisham Abbey a year ago. And you were there."

Lesbia laughed and nursed her knees. "I must have been, since I can describe you so exactly. What did I wear, dear?"

"I don't know," said George promptly.

"Oh!" she was quite disappointed, "and you call yourself a lover?"

"I do," he rejoined stoutly, "for, as I fell in love with you the moment we met, I saw only your eyes and your angel face. How could you expect me to remember a mere dress when----"

"Oh, what nonsense--very nice nonsense; still nonsense."

"I like talking nonsense to you."

"And I like to hear it from you. But it isn't bread and butter."

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