terrace, smoking their cigars, the red light
showing prettily in the distance; we ladies
were amusing ourselves in their absence.

Our hostess and another lady were matching
wools by lamplight; but the glare hurt
my eyes, and my couch was wheeled to the
far window. There the moonlight coming
in showed Eunice dreamily playing a sad
old German waltz, and Belle on the ottoman
beside me, discussing a drawing.

A grey stone wall, the height of the picture,
and the insects in the crevices, brown
and very hideous, were really beautifully
done, and some so minute as almost to
require a microscope.

It was very clever, and I told her so; but
I thought the subject unfortunate, and it
was this she was contesting. She was so
vehement that I grew tired of her, and
began to listen to the voices at the centre
table. My hostess was saying,

"I am expecting a visitor to arrive
tonight. He should be almost here now, I
think ——"

"Mr. Curzon," said the servant, as Mr.
Curzon, passing him, walked into the room.
A remarkably slight man, fair-haired, with
cold blue eyes, and a good carriage.

This I saw on the instant, and also that
Belle had started from her seat, with her
breath coming quickly in little gasps.

"What, Jack! You know Belle?" cries
our hostess, surprised at her manner.

"Yes; I know Miss Belle," says Jack,
tenderly, and he took her hand and held it.

And then there was a pause, which I felt
by instinct Belle could never break.

Our hostess comes to the rescue.

"Well, Jack, manners. Do not you know
Eunice?"

Jack turns and bows towards the piano.

"No; I have not that pleasure. You
must introduce me."

We chat and talk through the evening.
Belle has met this Mr. Curzon away on
some visit, and they seem to be pretty well
acquainted.

When we make a move for bed, and
come towards the light, Belle is crimson
with excitement, and there is enchantment
in her eyes. The hand that takes up the
bedroom lamp trembles; and do what she
will, her lips quiver. Some of the gentlemen
coming in now, our hostess gives them
Curzon in charge.

"Good-night, gentlemen!" she says,
cheerily. "You may take back another
recruit to your smoking."

Most of them are off to the billiard-room,
and have had enough of smoking; but not
Frogmore. This last feature is never
apparent in Frogmore. Curzon and he go off
together. The verandah, where they smoke,
is under my bedroom, and their words come
up to me through the open window.

They are talking of the girls, their quaintness
and beauty. Frogmore is descanting
on Eunice's generosity.

"She would have shared it all. Generous
of her, wasn't it?"

"Charming," Curzon says, but his tone
is careless, as though he were not attending.

Presently, their talk grew more private;
I shut the window and retired.

The next morning, on going down-stairs,
I found the whole party assembled in the
breakfast-room, our pleasure-loving hostess
gaily planning out the day. We were to
take our dinner to an old ruin that we
knew; and we were all to put on our oldest
clothes. I laughed with the girls about
their oldest clothes; they who were always
so daintily fresh!

We drove on the side of the cliff, and the
view the whole way was like one of Hook's
pictures. Sharp, jagged rocks in a green
sea; white, foaming waves coming crashing
against them. The crispness upon everything
was a sort of champagne to us.

Eunice and Frogmore were in the rumble
of one carriage; Curzon and Belle were in
the rumble of the other. Our hostess, I saw,
thought she had arranged us all cleverly.

I was in the carriage whose rumble held
Belle, and I noticed how the old dreaminess
had vanished from her eyes, and how
contented and happy they looked.

Every now and then I caught her fresh
voice, but oftener she spoke in a whisper.
Whenever I turned, I saw her face changing,
and there seemed to be no limit to her
companion's admiration. I fully believed I
was spectator at a love-scene, and when we
reached the ruins, I let them ramble off
together. Very soon the whole party was
scattered, and as I sat on the rocks on the
shelving beach, the prettiest visions began to
float towards me. My eyes saw everything
couleur de rose; the far-off future grew fair
and bright; vaguely, what I wished seemed
coming to pass. It was the old thing after
all, that I wished; the realisation of the
old jingling rhyme,

                   Jack shall have Jill,
                   Nought shall go ill.

"Mrs. F.," said Frogmore, coming up
towards me, "I don't care for the ruins.
May I sit on these rocks and have a talk
with you?"

"As you like, Captain Frogmore," said
I. But there was nothing in my manner
that encouraged him, for we sat on our