But he only laughed, and said—
“He’ll ask you one day, and then perhaps you won’t refuse.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she protested, with a smile. “I am quite content as I am.”
Nevertheless, she heaved a slight sigh, and it was evident it was scarcely the truth she spoke.
Dolly Vivian had walked with him from the Hall to the outskirts of Bude, and they were now resting beside an old railing which protected the footpath along the edge of the high cliff.
The night was perfect. The light of the April moon flooded the valleys, illuminated the hilltops, and trailed along the plains of Cornish grass land in uninterrupted streams. The pale grey sea and pale grey sky were tinged with a faint blue; a few stars shone dimly here and there; the whole horizon was wrapped in mist, which took a tint of saffron-pink under the moon’s rim, and was slightly darkened where sea and sky converged. There was utter silence, a stillness that was complete and absolute, as if every one in the world had died, and even the waves lapping the beach below scarcely whispered.
They stood together, their faces turned towards the scattered glimmering lights of Bude.
A fortnight ago, Hugh, holding out prospects of good sketching, had prevailed upon Jack to visit him, and at the same time had invited Dolly. They had spent a pleasant couple of weeks together, and this was their last evening; for Egerton had an appointment with a lady, who had commissioned him to paint her portrait, and it was imperative that he should leave for London on the morrow. He had pleaded that his correspondence demanded attention, and thus it was that Dolly and Hugh had gone for a short ramble after dinner, leaving the artist writing in the library.
The pair had been silent for several minutes, entranced by the charm of the moonlit scene. Hugh had grown grave and thoughtful, for his companion’s emphatic protest puzzled him.
“Ah, well,” he exclaimed, at length, “I suppose sooner or later all of us will be married and settled, as the old ladies say.”