He could see them well enough. There was champagne on the table: that was not of George Bethune's ordering: the booby from the swedes and mangold was clearly playing the part of host. And what was she saying to him in return? What form did her thanks take? Je ne puis rien donner—qu' mon coeur en mariage: that was easily said; and might mean no more than it meant in the bygone days. Women could so readily pour out, to any chance new comer, their petit vin blanc of gratitude.
But suddenly he became aware of some movement at the table along there; and quickly he lowered his look. Then he knew—he did not see—that someone was coming down the long room. He breathed hard, with a sort of fear—and it was not the fear of any man; he wished he had not come into this place; could he not even now escape?
"Vincent!"
The voice thrilled through him; he looked up; and here was Maisrie Bethune regarding him—regarding him with those eyes so beautiful, so shining, so tender, and reproachful!
"Did you not see us? Why should you avoid us?"
The tone in which she spoke pierced his very heart; but still—but still—there was that stranger at the table yonder.
"I thought you were otherwise engaged," said he. "I did not wish to intrude."
"You are unkind."
Then she stood for a moment uncertain. It was a brave thing for this girl to walk down a long room to address a young man, knowing that more than one pair of eyes would be turned towards her; and here she was standing without any visible aim or errand.
"Won't you come to our table, Vincent?" she asked hesitatingly.