From that moment the Whaup grew more serious, and ceased his boyish tricks.

“I think your cousin is very fond of you,” said the good-natured Lady Drum to Coquette.  “Don’t you think that some day or other he will ask you to marry him?”

“It may be,” replied Coquette dubiously.  “I do not know, because my uncle has not spoken to me of any such thing; but he may think it a good marriage, and arrange it.”  A French view of marriage that greatly astonished Lady Drum.

The new sense of responsibility that had come to the Whaup determined him to return at once to Glasgow, and resume his studies.  When Coquette heard this she became sad and wistful.

“I hope,” she said, “I shall be always the same to you, if you come back in one year—­two years—­ten years.”

And the Whaup thought that, if she would only wait two years he would work to such purpose as to be able to ask her to marry him.

Before the cruise was ended, Lord Earlshope, who had the lonely man’s habit of playing spectator to his own emotions, informed Coquette, in an impersonal way, that he had fallen in love with her.

“You are not responsible,” said he, shrugging his shoulders and speaking without bitterness.  “All I ask is that you give me the benefit of your sympathy.  I have been flying my kite too near the thunder-cloud.  And what business had a man of my age with a kite?”

“I am very sorry,” she said softly.

After this confession Coquette tried to avoid him as much as possible; but one evening while she was sitting alone on deck, watching the sunset on wild Loch Scavaig, he came to her and told her he was going away.  He held out his hand, but she made no response.  What was it he heard in the stillness of the night?  Moved by a great fear he knelt down, and looked into her drooping face.  She was sobbing bitterly.  Then there broke on him a revelation more terrible than his own sorrow.

“Why are you distressed?  It is nothing to you—­my going away?  It cannot be anything to you surely?”

“It is very much,” she said, with a calmness of despair that startled him.  “I cannot bear it.”

“What have I done!  What have I done!” he exclaimed.  “Coquette, Coquette, tell me you do not mean this!  You do not understand my position.  What you say would be to any other man a joy unspeakable—­the beginning of a new life to him; but to me——­” And he turned away with a shudder.

It was she who was the comforter in the presence of an impossible love.  Taking his hand gently, she said in a quiet voice:  “I do not know what you mean; but you must not accuse yourself for me.  I have made a confession—­it was right to do that for you were going away.  Now you will go away knowing I am still your friend, that I shall think of you sometimes:  though I shall pray never to see you any more until we are old people, and may meet and laugh at the old stupid folly.”