ident affection, glancing kindly towards
her with his blue eyes.

Only once or twice had Monica ventured to exchange a glance with her
husband. It satisfied her that he managed to converse; what his mood
really was could not be determined until afterwards. When they were
about to leave she saw him, to her surprise, speaking quite pleasantly
with Mr. Bevis. A carriage was procured to convey them home, and as
soon as they had started, Monica asked her husband, with a merry look,
how he had enjoyed himself.

'There is not much harm in it,' he replied dryly.

'Harm? How like you, Edmund, to put it that way! Now confess you will
be glad to go again.'

'I shall go if you wish.'

'Unsatisfactory man! You can't bring yourself to admit that it was
pleasant to be among new people. I believe, in your heart, you think
all enjoyment is wrong. The music was nice, wasn't it?'

'I didn't think much of the girl's singing, but that fellow Bevis
wasn't bad.'

Monica examined him as he spoke, and seemed to suppress a laugh.

'No, he wasn't at all bad. I saw you talking with Mrs. Bevis. Did she
tell you anything about her wonderful son?'

'Nothing particular.'

'Oh, then I must tell you the whole story.'

And she did so, in a tone half of jest, half of serious approval.

'I don't see that he has done anything more than his duty,' remarked
Widdowson at the end. 'But he isn't a bad fellow.'

For private reasons, Monica contrasted this attitude towards Bevis with
the disfavour her husband had shown to Mr. Barfoot, and was secretly
much amused.

Two or three days after they went to spend the morning at Petit Bot
Bay, and there encountered with Bevis and his three sisters. The result
was an invitation to go back and have lunch at Mrs. Bevis's lodgings;
they accepted it, and remained with their acquaintances till dusk. The
young man's holiday was at an end; next morning he would face the
voyage which he had depicted so grotesquely.

'And alone!' he lamented to Monica. 'Only think of it. The girls are
all rather below par just now; they had better stay here for the
present.'

'And in London you will be alone too?'

'Yes. It's very sad. I must bear up under it. The worst of it is, I am
naturally subject to depression. In solitude I sink, sink. But the
subject is too painful. Don't let us darken the last hours with such
reflections.'

Widdowson retained his indulgent opinion of the facetious young wine
merchant. He even laug