"You are right, Elsie," exclaimed her father. "It gives one the feeling of being in church when the organ is playing."
"And you and your delightful singing give me the feeling of silvery light upon a still, smooth lake," said Glynn, in a low tone to his companion. "You will be forever associated in my memory with moonlight and music."
Elsie smiled a thoughtful smile.
"I am not sure that such an association of ideas is a good omen. There is something mournful and mystic in the moon."
"I could never bring anything but good to you," whispered Glynn, who was strangely stirred by the charm of his companion, the beauty of the scene, the curious fatality which had brought him into contact with Lambert after having lost sight of him for so many years.
"Dieu!" cried Mademoiselle Davilliers, "I am expiring with fatigue, and I have all that long way to walk back!"
"Not at all, my dear young lady," said Lambert, with a superior air. "I made a few inquiries before we started, and told them to send on one of the carriages after us. There, I think I hear it coming."
The drive back was a fitting end to a delightful day. Glynn secured a seat next Elsie, and though neither of them spoke many words, he at least felt that the electric communication of unuttered sympathy was complete and sufficient.
"Thank you for a delightful day, Mr. Lambert."
"My dear boy"—it had been "my dear sir" the day before—"it is a real pleasure to meet you. Look in on us now and again. I am sure my daughter will be delighted. Elsie! Where is she?"