“A descendant—yes. I remember now; he died, poor nonno.... The lake pleases you, Mr. Beechtree?”
“Indeed, yes. It is very beautiful.”
Miss Longfellow's fine dark eyes had a momentary flicker of resentment. Most young men looked at her, but Mr. Beechtree at the lake, with his melancholy brooding eyes. Henry liked handsome young women well enough, but he admired scenery more. The smooth shimmer of the twilight waters, still holding the flash of sunset, the twinkling city of lights they were swiftly leaving behind them at the lake's head, the smaller constellations of the lakeside villages on either hand—these made on Henry, whose æsthetic nerve was sensitive, an unsteadying impression.
Miss Longfellow recalled his attention.
“Do you think the League will last?” she inquired sharply. “Do you like Geneva? Do you think the League will be moved somewhere else? Isn't it a real pity the French are so obstructionist? Will the Americans come in?”
Henry adjusted his monocle and looked at her in some surprise.
“Well,” she said impatiently, “I guess you're used to those questions by now.”
“But you've left out the latest,” Henry said. “What do you think can have happened to Svensen?”
“Ah, there you have us all guessing,” she amiably returned. “Poor Svensen. Who'd have thought it of him?”
“Thought what?”