assuring; it
contradicted the idea of impatient resentment, and Bernard took some
satisfaction in noting that it was prolonged.

"Yes, I am more timid than I used to be," he said.

In spite of her blush, she continued to look at him very directly; but
she had always done that--she always met one's eye; and Bernard now
instantly found all the beauty that he had ever found before in her
pure, unevasive glance.

"I don't know whether I am more brave," she said; "but I must tell the
truth--I instantly recognized you."

"You gave no sign!"

"I supposed I gave a striking one--in getting up and going away."

"Ah!" said Bernard, "as I say, I am more timid than I was, and I did n't
venture to interpret that as a sign of recognition."

"It was a sign of surprise."

"Not of pleasure!" said Bernard. He felt this to be a venturesome, and
from the point of view of taste perhaps a reprehensible, remark; but he
made it because he was now feeling his ground, and it seemed better to
make it gravely than with assumed jocosity.

"Great surprises are to me never pleasures," Angela answered; "I am not
fond of shocks of any kind. The pleasure is another matter. I have not
yet got over my surprise."

"If I had known you were here, I would have written to you beforehand,"
said Bernard, laughing.

Miss Vivian, beneath her expanded parasol, gave a little shrug of her
shoulders.

"Even that would have been a surprise."

"You mean a shock, eh? Did you suppose I was dead?"

Now, at last, she lowered her eyes, and her blush slowly died away.

"I knew nothing about it."

"Of course you could n't know, and we are all mortal. It was natural
that you should n't expect--simply on turning your head--to find me
lying on the pebbles at Blanquais-les-Galets. You were a great surprise
to me, as well; but I differ from you--I like surprises."

"It is rather refreshing to hear that one is a surprise," said the girl.

"Especially when in that capacity one is liked!" Bernard exclaimed.

"I don't say that--because such sensations pass away. I am now beginning
to get over mine."

The light mockery of her tone struck him as the echo of an unforgotten
air. He looked at her a moment, and then he said--

"You are not changed; I find you quite the same."

"I am sorry for that!" And she turned away.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "Where are you going?"

She looked about her, without answering, up and down the little terrace.
The Casino at