"She isn't," assured Stillwater, unhesitatingly, delighted at this conclusion. "Turn over a new leaf. Show her you're indifferent. She'll think all the more of you."
Lord Stafford was patting the ponies, while Haller arranged the harness.
"If you'll be kind enough to jump in, Lord Stafford," cried Mrs. Bunker, "we may reach home in time for breakfast! Come now, Haller, you've been fumbling long enough with that harness!"
Haller grinned at Lord Stafford. "That woman's full of life," he remarked, "I admire her."
"The devil you do!" exclaimed Lord Stafford.
As they started they all sung "On the Banks of the Wabash."
The moon was fading when they embarked on 'The Indiana.'
"The lake presents an unearthly appearance in this silver twilight," remarked Lord Canning. "It is vanishing quickly. There's still a parting gleam touching the dark pines here and there—lingering like the last caress of a dying hand. Everything is becoming vague. The world is fading away from us. How fascinating—these last few moments before the dawn. Ah, it is breaking! That suggestion of dark shore—this pale light on the black lake. Why, we are on the River Styx. Haller doesn't look unlike Charon. I can see you dimly, Miss Stillwater—a little ghost in your white cloak. We are all ghosts." He lowered his voice. "I am positive that Mr. Masters sitting there, with his mandolin, could not present a more tragic figure if his eternal punishment were to play for the amusement of all the shades crossing to Hades!"
Indiana laughed. Glen bit his lips savagely. It sounded to him like the mocking laugh he had heard in his dreams, on the farm in the West, that miserable week when he had exiled himself.
The morning mists floated above them, growing denser. The clouds reflecting in the glassy lake, exposed only a fringe of red foliage. Gradually the mists were tinged with a faint opaline glow, deepening gradually. The sun rose as they neared Camp Indiana.