“Noble creature!” said she; “you will make me love you whether I wish or not.”

What was it, after all, by which Frank Headley won Valencia’s love?  I cannot tell.  Can you tell, sir, how you won the love of your wife?  As little as you can tell of that still greater miracle—­how you have kept her love since she found out what manner of man you were.

So they paced homeward, hand in hand, beside the shining ripples, along the Dinas shore.  The birches breathed fragrance on them; the night-hawk churred softly round their path; the stately mountains smiled above them in the moonlight, and seemed to keep watch and ward over their love, and to shut out the noisy world, and the harsh babble and vain fashions of the town.  The summer lightning flickered to the westward; but round them the rich soft night seemed full of love,—­as full of love as their own hearts were, and, like them, brooding silently upon its joy.  At last the walk was over; the kind moon sank low behind the hills; and the darkness hid their blushes as they paced into the sleeping village, and their hands parted unwillingly at last.

When they came into the hall, through the group of lounging gownsmen and tourists, they found Bowie arguing with Mrs. Lewis, in his dogmatic Scotch way,—­

“So ye see, madam, there’s no use defending the drunken loon any-more at all; and here will my leddies have just walked their bonny legs off, all through that carnal sin of drunkenness, which is the curse of your Welsh populaaation.”

“And not quite unknown north of Tweed either, Bowie,” said Valencia, laughing.  “There now, say no more about it.  We have had a delightful walk, and nobody is the least tired.  Don’t say any more, Mrs. Lewis:  but tell them to get us some supper.  Bowie, so my lord has come in?”

“This half-hour good!”

“Has he had any sport?”

“Sport! aye, troth!  Five fish in the day.  That’s a river indeed at Bettws!  Not a pawky wee burn, like this Aberglaslyn thing.”

“Only five fish?” said Valencia, in a frightened tone.

“Fish, my leddy, not trouts, I said.  I thought ye knew better than that by this time.”

“Oh, salmon?” cried Valencia, relieved.  “Delightful.  I’ll go to him this moment.”

And upstairs to Scoutbush’s room she went.

He was sitting in dressing-gown and slippers, sipping his claret, and fondling his fly-book (the only one he ever studied con amore), with a most complacent face.  She came in and stood demurely before him, holding her broad hat in both hands before her knees, like a school-girl, her face half-hidden in the black curls.  Scoutbush looked up and smiled affectionately, as he caught the light of her eyes and the arch play of her lips.

“Ah! there you are, at a pretty time of night!  How beautiful you look, Val!  I wish my wife may be half as pretty!”

Valencia made him a prim curtsey.