in was a tall, brown-whiskered and
faultlessly-dressed person who never spoke, so that she was allowed to
sit and listen to the conversation between Mrs. Lorraine and Ingram.
They appeared to be on excellent terms. You would have fancied
they had known each other for years. And as Sheila sat and saw how
preoccupied and pleased with his companion Mr. Ingram was, perhaps now
and again the bitter question arose to her mind whether this woman,
who had taken away her husband, was seeking to take away her friend
also. Sheila knew nothing of all that had happened within these past
few days. She knew only that she was alone, without either husband or
friend, and it seemed to her that this pale American girl had taken
both away from her.

Ingram was in one of his happiest moods, and was seeking to prove to
Mrs. Lorraine that this present dinner-party ought to be an especially
pleasant one. Everybody was going away somewhere, and of course she
must know that the expectation of traveling was much more delightful
than the reality of it. What could surpass the sense of freedom, of
power, of hope enjoyed by the happy folks who sat down to an open
atlas and began to sketch out routes for their coming holidays? Where
was he going? Oh, he was going to the North. Had Mrs. Lorraine never
seen Edinburgh Castle rising out of a gray fog, like the ghost of some
great building belonging to the times of Arthurian romance? Had she
never seen the northern twilights, and the awful gloom and wild colors
of Loch Coruisk and the Skye hills? There was no holiday-making so
healthy, so free from restraint, as that among the far Highland hills
and glens, where the clear mountain-air, scented with miles and miles
of heather, seemed to produce a sort of intoxication of good spirits
within one. Then the yachting round the wonderful islands of the
West--the rapid runs of a bright forenoon, the shooting of the wild
sea-birds, the scrambled dinners in the small cabin, the still nights
in the small harbors, with a scent of sea-weed abroad, and the white
stars shining down on the trembling water. Yes, he was going yachting
this autumn: in about a fortnight he hoped to start. His friend was at
present away up Loch Boisdale, in South Uist, and he did not know how
to get there except by going to Skye, and taking his chance of some
boat going over. Where would they go then? He did not know. Wherever
his friend liked. It would be enough for him if they kept always
m