Lady Forsyth, returning to her charge as they steamed away into the Mediterranean, found her engaged in what appeared to be a very promising flirtation, such as would surely have delighted the heart of clever Mrs. Bladon.
She was secretly charmed with Lumsden, whom she had not noticed at Paddington, and to her letter to Mrs. Bladon, which she was writing to post at Naples, she added a postscript which filled that lady with unholy joy:
"Be quite easy about Nancy; I think all danger is over. A flirtation is in grand progress, and, between ourselves, the man is charming."
She quite forgot to mention his name, which, perhaps, was quite as well for that lady's peace of mind.
To Nancy and Lumsden there ensued a period of bliss. Steaming down the Mediterranean, with very little motion to disturb the equanimity even of Lady Forsyth, what halcyon days those were when, after dinner, in secluded corners of the deck, under the brilliant Southern moon, they walked up and down—silent very often, with the silence of a perfect understanding—till one fateful evening when Lumsden resolved to know his fate.
"Do you know, Nancy," he began (he had never called her Nancy before), "before you came away I think your mother took a dislike to me?"
"Oh, no—how could she?" said Nancy. "She always said she liked you. Besides——"
She paused abruptly, and Lumsden stole a glance at her half-averted face, which in the moonlight looked strangely sweet.
"Well, I called to see you several times, and you were always 'not at home.'"
Nancy started.