e
can see it all from the shore.

"Dearest! I don't want to go. You don't mind? Of course, I will go if
you wish, but I would so much rather stay;" and she lengthened her plea
in her attitude and look to melt the discontent she saw gathering.

Adrian protested that she had much better go; that he could amuse
himself very well till their return, and so forth; but she had schemes
in her pretty head, and held to it to be allowed to stay in spite of
Lord Mountfalcon's disappointment, cited by Richard, and at the great
risk of vexing her darling, as she saw. Richard pished, and glanced
contemptuously at Adrian. He gave way ungraciously.

"There, do as you like. Get your things ready to leave this evening. No,
I'm not angry."--Who could be? he seemed as he looked up from her
modest fondling to ask Adrian, and seized the indemnity of a kiss on
her forehead, which, however, did not immediately disperse the shade of
annoyance he felt.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed. "Such a day as this, and a fellow refuses
to come on the water! Well, come along to the edge of the sea." Adrian's
angelic quality had quite worn off to him. He never thought of devoting
himself to make the most of the material there was: but somebody else
did, and that fair somebody succeeded wonderfully in a few short hours.
She induced Adrian to reflect that the baronet had only to see her, and
the family muddle would be smoothed at once. He came to it by degrees;
still the gradations were rapid. Her manner he liked; she was certainly
a nice picture: best of all, she was sensible. He forgot the farmer's
niece in her, she was so very sensible. She appeared really to
understand that it was a woman's duty to know how to cook.

But the difficulty was, by what means the baronet could be brought to
consent to see her. He had not yet consented to see his son, and Adrian,
spurred by Lady Blandish, had ventured something in coming down. He was
not inclined to venture more. The small debate in his mind ended by
his throwing the burden on time. Time would bring the matter about.
Christians as well as Pagans are in the habit of phrasing this excuse
for folding their arms; "forgetful," says The Pilgrim's Scrip, "that the
devil's imps enter into no such armistice."

As she loitered along the shore with her amusing companion, Lucy had
many things to think of. There was her darling's match. The yachts were
started by pistol-shot by Lord Mountfalcon on board the Empress, and