In this squalid parlour, where she was the only soft-hued thing in the room, he thought her more beautiful than ever.  Perhaps she was, for the love-light burned steadily in her Irish eyes, and he could not tell it was not for him.

Never were more lenient or careless adversaries.  Twice Jack’s queen was in Bluebell’s grasp uncaptured, and he could at any time have checkmated her, had he been as attentive to the variations of the game as to those of her countenance.  Suddenly Bluebell swept her hand over the board, crying,—­“I never saw such men, they don’t fight.  We have been playing half-an-hour, and have hardly taken any prisoners.”

“It is a slow game,” said Jack, equably; “let us try cat’s-cradle.  Or, perhaps,” he continued, meeting with no response, “I ought to be saying good-night.”

Bluebell was secretly tired of him, and could not conceive on what principle her mother began pressing him to stay.

“There’s the nicest bit of toasted cheese coming up for supper,” said she.  “I know all officers like a Welsh rabbit.  My poor late husband did, though he used to say, in his funny way, he only ate it because there was nothing else fit to touch.”

“I fear I must go; but I hope you’ll ask me to tea again, Mrs. Leigh, it is so jolly getting away from mess sometimes,” said the young diplomatist.

“That I will,” said she, highly flattered, “and I shall be very much offended if you don’t come.  I am only sorry you can’t sit a little longer now.”

Jack was not quite sure he couldn’t, but Bluebell, pretending not to see his hesitation, held out her hand and said “good-night,” so he had nothing for it but to go.  In two minutes, though, his head re-appeared.  “Come and look at the Northern Lights, Miss Leigh; regular tip-top fireworks.  Here’s a shawl; make haste.”  But when she come out, only a few weak-coloured pink clouds were floating about.

“Is that all?” ejaculated Bluebell.

“Not quite,” said Jack; “it was a western light I was trying to invoke, or, rather, the light of my eyes.  When may I come and see you, Bluebell?”

“I came out to look at meteors,” said she, laughing at his unwonted flowers of speech; “and I don’t know who gave you leave to call me by my Christian name.”

“It isn’t your Christian,” urged Jack.

“It will be my nom de guerre, then, if you say it again.”

“Change it if you like,” quoth he, “if you will let me change your surname too.”

A startled stare of blue eyes, a smothered laugh, and Bluebell had darted into the house, clapping the door after her.

“Confound it,” thought Jack, “just my luck.  In another moment I should have kissed her—­I think I should; but, hang it, when a girl looks you straight in the face and talks to you as if you were her grandmother, it puts one off.  Well, I have kissed lots of girls without proposing and now it’s vice versa, for it was as good as an offer, and all I got by it was her nipping in just when I thought I had her to myself.”