Scattered near them on rugs and furs are some more friends.
It is from them that the laughter most heartily proceeds; near them are Violet and Leicester, she seated, and leaning against the mast, he lying full length and cutting the portrait of Mr. Thaxton out of orange peel.
Near him recline Bertie and Ethel—Bertie puffing a cigar with mild enjoyment, and Ethel teasing him with the end of a rope.
Swinging in a hammock up above their heads is Fitz, looking as happy as the day is long, and not at all the disappointed man. He loves Violet still, and she calls him Fitz; but it is a brotherly affection between them, and Fitz is satisfied. He will never marry, he says, but he insists upon it that if there should ever be any children round Violet's knee, that they should call him "Uncle."
Near them sits Jamie Sanderson—near, but far away, for he has a book in his hand, and he is in dreamland. He will never leave Leicester while they both live.
Mr. Thaxton, smoking his cigar, drops comfortably off to sleep, lulled by the heat and the soft laughter.
The other elderly parties are about to follow his example, when Fitz sings out:
"Pass that champagne up, will you, ladies and gentlemen? Because I'm up here, it doesn't follow that I'm above the weaknesses of other mortals. George! How happy I am! You all of you look that way inclined; and so you ought to be. Ladies and gentlemen, if there's any one of you unhappy on this happy vessel, you shouldn't be here; it isn't the place for you, and, by George! if you'll have the honesty to admit it, I'll pitch you overboard."
There is no answer, save a peal of laughter—and a piece of orange peel, thrown by Leicester, and alighting on Fitz's nose—and as that must mean that they are perfectly happy there and now we will leave them.
Long may they glide through life as they glide now, this summer's eve, doing good, loving much, and trusting to the beneficence of that Heaven whence all happiness and good things flow!