stepping out on his balcony he perceived her seated on hers; he
returned her gracious and encouraging salutation, wholly different from
the self-conscious manner she affected at the dining-table, and he
hoped now to be able to take up the acquaintance where it had been
dropped. For his part he meant to ignore that miserable story of
Crabbe's; he would treat her as the lady she was and the sincere,
much-tried creature he thought her. Her mood just now chanced to be
charming, and as she rose, again wearing the gay dress of the theatre,
which showed her throat and elbows in their perfection, Ringfield, even
with his slight experience, knew that she was beautiful. That same
Nature which was so forced upon his notice in his new resting-place was
strong within him this evening, and he could not refuse to harbour
certain natural impulses of admiration and delight, especially as she
was unusually animated in voice, expression and gesture.

"Do you not think it dreadful, Mr. Ringfield, that poor Mme. Poussette
is alone with my brother all this time? Should I not be there too and
take my share in some way? Oh, not in this dress of course; I
understand your look. I have only put this on because it is cooler
than any other I have with me. See--I have pinned up the train around
me! I must not scandalize the country-folk! I may tell you this--the
people of the village think me very peculiar. In their opinion I might
mend my manners."

"Oh, _their_ opinion!" came from Ringfield with a smile.

"Well, even here, even in St. Ignace, there is a standard, you see."

"Of manners? Yes, I suppose so. And of morality, let us hope."

"You are not certain? What have you found out, what departure from the
standard in other places? _Mon--Dieu_! I hope not--you are thinking
of Montreal and the Hotel-Champlain!"

"The chief vice I have encountered here," returned Ringfield firmly,
"is drink, and as a result other things connected with it, ensuing
naturally."

Miss Clairville sat down suddenly, and as she did so her draperies
whorled about her till she looked like some crimson flower with her
dark head for its centre. "Oh!" she said under her breath, "surely
there are worse things than drink!" Some latent emotion betrayed
itself in her voice; small wonder, he thought, if Crabbe were really
anything to her.

"Certainly there are, but they are easier to deal with. There is my
difficulty, for I know I am going to find it ver