"Ah! I see," and he laughed. "Now I understand why you were so bent on steering me about just now. Well, you are not likely to dance gentleman again, I fancy. There!" regretfully, "it's over; shall we go outside?"
Helen nodded her head, and accordingly they went down the steps arm in arm. She meant to seize this opportunity of giving him a hint of the mine on which he was standing,—one word of warning with regard to Mrs. Creery. She had accepted his friendship, and surely this would be the act of a friend.
Mr. Quentin—sitting in the dusky shades of a secluded corner, whispering to Lizzie Caggett—saw the pair descending from the ball-room, pass down the steps, and out into the moonlight, and looked after them with an expression of annoyance that was quite a revelation to his sprightly companion.
CHAPTER XVIII.
"BUT WHAT WILL PAPA SAY?"
"Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that, oh! 'tis pain
To break its links so soon."
Moore.
Helen and her partner ascended the steep gravel pathway, lined with palms, gold mohur, and orange-trees, and turning a sharp corner, came suddenly upon a full view of the sea, with the moon on her bosom. It was a soft, still, tropical night; not a sound broke the silence, save a distant murmur of human voices, or the dip of an oar in the water.