Then they drove leisurely back in the afternoon.  They passed along the moorland ways, through rude little villages built of stone and by the outskirts of level and cheerless farms, until they got into the beautiful woods and avenues lying around Penzance.  When they came in sight of the broad bay they found that the world had changed its colors since the morning.  The sea was of a cold purplish gray, but all around it, on the eastern horizon, there was a band of pale pink in the sky.  On the west again, behind Penzance, the warm hues of the sunset were shining behind the black stems of the trees.  The broad thoroughfare was mostly in shadow, and the sea was so still that one could hear the footsteps and the voices of the people walking up and down the Parade.

“I suppose I must go now,” said the young gentleman when he had seen them safely seated in the small parlor overlooking the bay.  But he did not seem anxious to go.

“But why?” Wenna said, rather timidly.  “You have no engagement, Mr. Trelyon.  Would you care to stay and have dinner with us—­such a dinner as we can give you?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I should like it very much,” he said.

Mrs. Rosewarne, a little surprised, and yet glad to see Wenna enjoying herself, regarded the whole affair with a gentle resignation.  Wenna had the gas lit and the blinds let down:  then, as the evening was rather cool, she had soon a bright fire burning in the grate.  She helped to lay the table.  She produced such wines as they had.  She made sundry visits to the kitchen, and at length the banquet was ready.

What ailed the young man?  He seemed beside himself with careless and audacious mirth, and he made Mrs. Rosewarne laugh as she had not laughed for years.  It was in vain that Wenna assumed airs to rebuke his rudeness.  Nothing was sacred from his impertinence—­not even the offended majesty of her face.  And at last she gave in too, and could only revenge herself by saying things of him which, the more severe they were, the more he seemed to enjoy.  But after dinner she went to the small piano, while her mother took a big easy-chair near the fire, and he sat by the table, looking over some books.  There was no more reckless laughter then.

In ancient times—­that is to say, in the half-forgotten days of our youth—­a species of song existed which exists no more.  It was not as the mournful ballads of these days, which seem to record the gloomy utterances of a strange young woman who has wandered into the magic scene in Der Freischuetz, and who mixes up the moanings of her passion with descriptions of the sights, and sounds she there finds around her.  It was of quite another stamp.  It dealt with a phraseology of sentiment peculiar to itself—­a “patter,” as it were, which came to be universally recognized in drawing-rooms.  It spoke of maidens plighting their troth, of Phyllis enchanting her lover with her varied moods, of marble halls in which true love