For indeed this young man's mind was all unhinged. He had had a hard fight of it that day; and perhaps if Maisrie had known she would have made allowances. What she did clearly see was that her well-meant invitation had been a mistake. She strove her best to remove this embarrassment; she tried to make the conversation general; and in some slight measure she succeeded; but always there was an obvious restraint; there were dark silences and difficult pauses; and, on the part of the young men, a sullen and dangerous antagonism that might at any moment leap forth with a sudden tongue of flame—a retort—an insult.
This hapless entertainment came to an end at last; and, as Vincent had expected, while Maisrie was putting on her cloak, their new friend stepped aside and paid the bill—the bill for three, that is. And the next step? An invitation that the generous host of the evening should go along to the rooms in German Place? There would be tobacco, and Scotch whiskey, and reminiscences of travel, and dissertations on literary and philosophical subjects—and perhaps Maisrie would play for him 'The Flowers o' the Forest' or sing for him 'Isabeau s'y promène.' Perhaps the bucolic soul was penetrable by fine melody? There would be whiskey-and-soda, at any rate, and a blazing fire.
And as a matter of fact, when the four of them paused for a second at the door of the restaurant, the new acquaintance did receive that invitation—from George Bethune himself. But he declined.
"Thanks, awfully," said he, "but I can't to-night. Fact is, there's a big billiard match on this evening, and I've backed my man for £20, and I may want to hedge a bit if he isn't in his best form. Some other evening, if you'll allow me. But to-morrow morning—what are you going to do to-morrow morning? You can't stay indoors while the weather is so fine; you must leave your work until the wet comes. So I dare say I shall find you somewhere along the front about eleven to-morrow; and if I don't, why, then, I'll come along to German Place, and drag you out. For who ever knew such a glorious December?—quite warm in the sun—primroses and violets all a-growing and a-blowing—in the baskets. Good-night to you!—good-night, Miss Bethune!—mind you bring your grandfather along to-morrow morning; or I'll have to come and drag you both out; good-night—good-night!"—and then with a brief nod to Vincent, which was frigidly returned, he departed.
"You are going our way, Vincent?" Maisrie said, timidly.
"Oh, yes," he made answer, as they set out together.
For a few seconds they walked in silence. But when they had crossed the Old Steine, and got into the Marine Parade, the moon came into view, away over there in the east; it was at the full, but rather dusky, for the north wind had blown the smoke of the town down on the sea-front.
"Bid you notice how clear the moon was last night?" she said, to break this embarrassing silence.
"Yes, I did," he said. "I was walking about a good deal last night. The moonlight was beautiful on the water."
"Oh, were you down in Brighton last night?" she asked, rather anxiously.