He stood motionless, he listened hard.  Once even he called aloud: 

“I am here, Nina!  Here, Nina! waiting for you here!”

But no one responded.  He was alone; the vision, the delicious, heart-stirring vision, had vanished.

Captain Bertram wandered about, restless and miserable, for an hour or two.  Then he went home and retired straight to his room.

That night he did not attempt to keep the secret chamber of his heart in which Josephine dwelt, locked and barred.  No, he opened the doors wide, and bade her come out, and talked to her.  Passionate and wild and loving words he used, and Beatrice was nothing to him.  He did not go to bed that night.  In the morning his face showed symptoms of the vigil he had passed through.  His mother noticed the haggard lines round his eyes, and she gave vent to a sigh—­scarcely audible, it is true, and quickly smothered.

Mrs. Bertram was happy, but still she lived on thorns.  She felt that the fairy palace she had built over that sepulchre of the past might crumble at any moment.  The lines of care on Bertram’s brow gave her a sensation of fear.  Was anything the matter?  Was the courage of the bride-elect failing?  At the eleventh hour could anything possibly injure the arrangements so nearly completed?

Catherine and Mabel were in good spirits.  Their bride’s-maids’ dresses had arrived from town the previous night.  They were of gauzy white over silk slips; the girls had never possessed such luxurious costumes before.

“You’d like to see us in them, wouldn’t you, Loftie?” said Mabel.  “Catherine looks splendid in hers, and those big hats with Marguerites are so becoming.  Shall we put our dresses on, Loftie, for you to see before you run away to Beatrice?  Shall we?”

Loftus raised his dark eyes, and looked full at his young sister.  There were heavy shadows round his eyes; their depths looked gloomy and troubled.

“What did you say?” he asked, in a morose voice.

“What did I say?  Well, really, Loftie, you are too bad.  I do think you are the most selfish person I know.  At one time I thought Bee was improving you, but you are worse than ever this morning.  You never, never, take a bit of interest in things that don’t immediately concern yourself.  I thought our bride’s-maids’ dresses would have been sufficiently important to rouse a passing interest even in—­now, what’s the matter, Catherine?  I will speak out.”

“Forgive me, Mab, I have a headache and feel stupid,” interrupted Loftus, rising to his feet.  “I’m going out for a stroll; the air will do me good.”

He went up to the end of the table where his mother sat, kissed her almost tenderly, and left the room.

Catherine began to reprove Mabel.

“It is you who are selfish,” she said.  “You know Loftie must have a great deal on his mind just now.”

“Oh, well, I don’t care.  Every little pleasure is somehow or other dashed to the ground. I was pleased when I thought Bee was to be my sister, and she was so sweet about the dresses, choosing just what we’d look best in.  Loftus was nice, too, until this morning.  Now I don’t feel as if I cared about anything.”