“What is my income from all sources?” suggested Lightmark rather flippantly.  “Well, I have to confess that my profession, in which I am said to be rising, brings me in about four hundred and fifty a year, in addition to which I have a private income, which amounts to, say, three hundred; total, seven hundred and fifty.”  Then, seeing that Charles looked grave, he played his trump card:  “And I ought to add that my uncle, the Colonel, you know, has been good enough to talk about making me an allowance, on my marrying with his approval.  In fact he is, I believe, prepared to make a settlement on my marriage with your sister.”

Charles Sylvester pronounced himself provisionally satisfied, and it was arranged that he should communicate with Colonel Lightmark, and that meanwhile the engagement should not be made public.

Eve was standing on the little balcony, appertaining to the sitting-room which had been dedicated to the ladies as a special mark of favour by the proprietor of the pension, and Lightmark hastened to join her there; and while Charles and his mother played a long game of chess, the two looked out at the line of moonlit Alps, and were sentimentally and absurdly happy.

“Mrs. Sylvester,” said Lightmark, when that lady thought it advisable to warn her daughter that there was a cold wind blowing off the lake, “we have arranged that a certain portrait shall figure in the Academy catalogue next spring as ’Portrait of the Artist’s Wife.’”

After which Mrs. Sylvester began to call him Richard, and Charles became oppressively genial:  a development which led the embarrassed recipient of these honours to console himself by reflecting that, after all, he was not going to marry the entire family.

“Ma cherie,” said Lady Garnett, as the Paris train steamed out of Lucerne on the afternoon of the next day but one, “do you know that I feel a sensation of positive relief at getting away from those people?  Eve is very gentille, but lovers are so uninteresting, when they are properly engaged; and the excellent Charles!  My child, I am afraid you have been very cruel.”

“Cruel, aunt?” said Mary, with a demure look of astonishment.  “I like Eve very much, and I suppose Mr. Lightmark must be nice, because he’s such a friend of Philip’s.  But I don’t quite like the way he talks about Philip, and ... he’s very clever.”

“Yes,” said the old lady drowsily; “he’s cleverer than Philip.”

“He may be cleverer, but——­” Mary began with some warmth, and paused.

Her companion opened her eyes widely, and darted a keen glance at the girl.  Then, settling herself into her corner: 

“My dear child, to whom do you say it?”

It was eminently characteristic of Lady Garnett that, even when she was sleepy, she understood what people were going to say long before the words were spoken, and, especially with her familiars, she had a habit of taking her anticipations as realized.