e elbow in her muff,
sallied from her room on the announcement that the carriage was
waiting. As, with her leisurely daintiness, she tripped it down the
stairs, she crossed Mr. Landale, and paused a moment, ready for the
skirmish, as she noticed the cynical curiosity with which he examined
her.

"Whither, my fair sister," said he, ranging himself with his best
courtesy against the bannisters, "so late in the day?"

"To my lord and master's side, of course," said Molly.

"Why--is not Adrian coming back to-night?"

"Apparently not, since he has graciously permitted me to join him upon
his rock. I trust you will not find it too unhappy in our absence:
that would be the crowning misfortune of a day when everything seems
to have gone wrong. Sophia invisible with her vapours; Madeleine with
the megrim; and you in and out of the house as excited and secret as
the cat when she has licked all the cream. I suppose I shall end by
knowing what it is all about. Meanwhile I think I shall enjoy the
tranquillity of the island--although I have actually to tear myself
away from the prospect of a tete-a-tete evening with you."

But as Rupert's serenity was not to be moved, her ladyship hereupon
allowed herself to be escorted to the carriage without further parley.

As she drove away through the dark night, first down the level,
well-metalled avenue, then along the uneven country road, and finally
through the sand of the beach in which hoofs and tyres sank
noiselessly, inches deep, Molly gave herself up, with almost childish
zest to the leaven of imagination.... Here, in this dark carriage, was
reclining, not Lady Landale (whose fate deed had already been signed,
sealed and delivered to bring her nothing but disappointment), but her
happier sister, still confronted with the fascinating unknown,
hurrying under cover of night, within sound of the sea, to that
enthralling lure, a lover--a real lover, ardent, daring, _young_,
ready to risk all, waiting to spread the wings of his boat, and carry
her to the undiscovered country.

Glowing were these fleeting images of the "might have been," angry the
sudden relapses into the prose of reality.

No, Madeleine, the coward, who thought she had loved her lover, was
now in her room, weak and weeping, whilst he, no doubt, paced the deck
in mad impatience (as a lover should), now tortured by the throes of
anxiety, now hugging himself with the thought of his coming bliss ...
that bliss that neve