itar and watching
the twinkling lights far away below the bridge where the boat-houses
stand.

A Chinese lantern suspended upon a short boat-hook cast a deep crimson
glow upon the faces of those who might well have been young lovers. The
river rippled musically against the square bows of their ugly but
comfortable craft. But few passed them by and those were also seekers
after solitude, with no eyes for their co-religionists in the amatory
gospel. Alban, wholly fascinated by the silence and the beauty of the
scene, lay at Anna's feet, so full of content that he did not dare to
utter his thoughts aloud. The girl caught the tiny wavelets in her
outstretched hand and said that Corydon had become blind.

"Do you like Willy Forrest?" she asked, "do you think he is clever,
Alban?"--a question, the answer to which would not interest her at all
if it did not lead to others. Alban, in his turn, husbanding the
secrets, replied evasively:

"Why should I think about him? He is not a friend of mine. You are the
one to answer that, Anna. You like him--I have heard you say so."

"Never believe what a girl says. I adore Willy Forrest because he makes
me laugh. I am like the poor little white rabbit which is fascinated by
the great black wriggly snake. Some day it will swallow me up--perhaps
on Thursday--after Ascot. I wish I could tell you. Pandora seems to have
dropped everything out of her basket except the winner of the Gold Cup.
If Willy Forrest is right, I shall win a fortune. But, of course, he
doesn't tell the truth any more than I do."

Alban was silent a little while and then he asked her:

"Do you know much about him, Anna? Did you ever meet his people or
anything?"

She looked at him sharply.

"He is the son of Sir John Forrest, who died in India. His brother was
lost at sea. What made you ask me?"

He laughed as though it had not been meant.

"You say that he doesn't tell the truth. Suppose it were so about
himself. He might be somebody else--not altogether the person he
pretends to be. Would it matter if he were? I don't think so, Anna--I
would much rather know something about a man himself than about his
name."

She sat up in the punt and rested her chin upon the knuckles of her
shapely hands. This kind of talk was little to her liking. She had often
doubted Willy Forrest, but had never questioned his title to the name he
bore.

"Have they ever told you anything about us, Alban?" she continued, "did
you e