Well, it was not of much concern to him; and as he was winning all along the line, he willingly returned to the game. It had grown so dark, however, that Maisrie had to go and light the gas—having drawn down the blinds first, as was her invariable habit. When she came back to the table she seemed to breathe more freely; though she was thoughtful and pre-occupied—not with the game. The music on the other side of the way was not resumed that evening, as far as they could hear.
Several days passed; and each evening now was silent. Maisrie saw nothing more of the young man; indeed, she studiously refrained from glancing across to the other side of the street—except when she was going out, and wanted to make sure there was no one there. But something was now about to happen that entirely altered this disposition of affairs.
One morning George Bethune and his granddaughter had gone for their accustomed stroll in Hyde Park, and in course of time had taken their places on a bench near the Serpentine, while the old man had pulled out a newspaper and began to read it. The day was sultry, despite an occasional stirring of wind; and Maisrie sitting there, and having nothing to do but look at the water, and the trees, and the sky, observed that all the world around them was gradually growing darker. In the south, especially, the heavens were of a curious metallic hue—a livid grey, as it were; while across that hung two horizontal belts of deepest purple that remained motionless, while other and lighter tags of vapour were inter-twisting with each other or melting away into nothingness. Those two clouds were not of the usual cloud-form at all—they were rather like two enormous torpedoes lying one above the other; and there was a sombre deadness of hue about them that looked ominous. Suddenly, as she was thus vaguely regarding those long purple swathes, there ran across them—springing vertically upwards—a quivering line of yellow flame—so thin it was, it appeared like a thread of golden wire—and when that had vanished, there was a second or two of silence, followed by a dull, low, rumbling noise that seemed to come from a considerable distance. She was not much alarmed. There were no signs of a terrific thunderstorm; probably a few more flashes would serve to loosen and disperse those lowering clouds, and allow the day to clear.
It was at this moment that a young man came up and addressed Mr. Bethune—with a certain courteous hesitation, and yet in frank and ingenuous tones.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, "but may I claim the privilege of a neighbour to offer you this umbrella—I'm afraid there's a shower coming—and the young lady may get wet."
It was a pleasant voice; George Bethune looked up well-disposed towards the stranger, whoever he might be. And the face of the young man was also prepossessing; it was something more than handsome; it was intelligent and refined; and the honest and straightforward eyes had a certain confidence in them, as if they were not used to having their friendly advances repulsed.
"I thank you—I thank you," said George Bethune, with much dignity. "I had not observed. But you will want the umbrella for yourself—we can get shelter under one of the trees."
"Would that be wise, sir, in a thunderstorm?" said the young man. "Oh, no, let me give you the umbrella—I don't mind a shower—and it won't be more than that, I fancy."
George Bethune accepted the proffered courtesy.
"Here, Maisrie, since this young gentleman is so kind; you'd better be prepared. A neighbour did you say, sir?" he continued.