"Oh," said she, half inclined to laugh, yet a little bit afraid too, "don't ask me. It isn't as serious as that—I mean, I didn't think you would take it seriously. No doubt it's all right, Vin, your choosing your own friends; and I have nothing to say against them; only I would rather you left me out, if you don't mind. You see, I don't know your intentions—"
"Supposing I have none?" he demanded again.
"Well, no one can say what may happen," the young widow persisted; "and I should not like to be appealed to—Now, now, Vin, don't be so passionate!—have I said a single word against your new friends? Not one. I only confess that I'm a selfish and comfort-loving woman, and I don't wish to be drawn into any family strife. There may be no family strife? Very well; so much the better. But my having no further acquaintance with Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune—my having no knowledge of them whatever, for it practically comes to that—cannot injure them; and leaves me free from responsibility. Now don't quarrel with me, Vin; for I will not allow it; I have been talking common sense to you—but I suppose that is what no man of twenty-five understands."
He hauled up the gig to the stern of the house-boat, as an intimation that she could step on board when she chose.
"There," said she, as she gave him her hand in parting, "I see I have offended you; but what I have said has been for your sake as well as mine."
Well, he was vexed, disappointed, and a little inclined to be angry. But all that darkness fled from his spirit—he forgot all about Mrs. Ellison's friendly monitions—he had no care for any speculations as to the future—when he was back again in the White Rose, sitting by Maisrie Bethune, he and she together looking abroad on the gay crowd, and the boats, and the trembling willows, and the slow-moving skies now growing warmer with the afternoon sun. Then, when the last of the races was over, came dinner; and as twilight stole over the river and the meadows, the illuminations began, the rows of coloured lanterns showing one after the other, like so many fire-flies in the dusk. Of course they were sitting outside now—on this placid summer night—in fairyland.
CHAPTER VII.
CLAIRE FONTAINE.
But something far more strange and wonderful happened to him the next morning; and that was his first tête-à-tête conversation with Maisrie Bethune. It was quite unexpected, and even unsought; nay, when he stepped outside and found that she was alone on deck, he would have shrank back, had that been possible, rather than break in upon her solitude. For even here at Henley, during the regatta-time, which may be regarded as the High Festival of Joyance and Flirtation, there was no thought of pretty and insidious love-making in this young man's head or heart. There was something mysteriously remote and reserved about this isolated young creature, whose very beauty was of a strangely pensive and wistful kind. Even the gentle self-possession and the wisdom beyond her years she showed at times seemed to him a pathetic sort of thing; he had a fancy that during her childhood she never had had the chance of playing with young children.
But it was too late to retreat; and indeed she welcomed him with a pleasant smile as she bade him good morning. It was he who was embarrassed. He talked to her about the common things surrounding them, while anxiously casting about for something better fitting such a rare opportunity. And at last he said—