They stood on the velvety sward—Sir Victor with Trixy on his arm, Charley and Edith side by side. A glowing mass of soft, scarlet drapery wrapped Miss Darrell, a coquettish hat, with a long, black ostrich plume, set off her Spanish face and eyes. They had dined—and when is moonlight half so poetical as after an excellent dinner?
"I see two or three boats," remarked Sir Victor. "I propose a row on the lakes."
"Of all things," seconded Beatrix, "a sail on the Lakes of Killarney!
Edith, do you realize it? Let us go at once, Sir Victor."
"Will you come with me, Edith?" Charley asked, "or would you rather go with them?"
She looked at him in surprise. How grave his face—how quiet his tone!
He had been like this all day, silent, preoccupied, grave.
"My very dear Charley, how polite we grow! how considerate of others' feelings! Quite a new phase of your interesting character. I'll go with you, certainly—Mr. Charles Stuart, in a state of lamblike meekness, is a study worth contemplating."
He smiled slightly, and drew her hand within his arm.
"Come, then," he said, "let us have this last evening together; who knows when we shall have another?"
Miss Darrell's brown eyes opened to their widest extent.
"'This last evening! Who knows when we shall have another!' Charley, if you're meditating flight or suicide, say so at once—anything is better than suspense. I once saw a picture of 'The Knight of the Woful Countenance'—the K. of the W. C. looked exactly as you look now! If you're thinking of strychnine, say so—no one shall oppose you. My only regret is, that I shall have to wear black, and hideous is a mild word to describe Edith Darrell in black."