After dinner Milly took me out upon the terrace, and from thence we went to explore the gardens.  We had not been out long before Julian Stormont came to join us.  We had been talking pleasantly enough till he appeared, but his coming seemed to make us both silent, and he himself had a thoughtful air.  I watched his pale face as he walked beside us in the twilight, and was again struck by the careworn look about the brow and the resolute expression of the mouth.

He was very fond of Milly.  Of that fact there could be no possible doubt; and I think he had already begun to suffer keenly from the knowledge that his love was unreturned.  That he hoped against hope at this time—­that he counted fully on his power to win her in the future, I know.  He was too wise to precipitate matters by any untimely avowal of his feelings.  He waited with a quiet resolute patience which was a part of his nature.

Of course we talked a little, but it was in a straggling, desultory kind of way; and I think it was a relief to all of us when we finished the round of the gardens and went in through one of the drawing-room windows.  The room was lighted with lamps and candles placed about upon the tables, and Mrs. Darrell was sitting near her husband, employed upon some airy scrap of fancy-work, while he read his Times.

He asked for some music soon after we went in, and she rose to obey him with a very charming air of submission.  She played magnificently, with a power and style that were quite new to me, for I had heard no professional performers.  She sang an Italian scena afterwards, in a rich mezzo-soprano, and with a kind of suppressed passion that impressed me deeply.  I scarcely wondered, after hearing her play and sing, that Mr. Darrell had been fascinated by her.  These gifts of hers were in themselves sufficient to subjugate a man who really cared for music.

Milly was charmed into forgetfulness of her prejudices.  She went over to the piano and kissed her stepmother.

‘Papa told me how clever you were,’ she said; ’but he did not tell me you were a genius.’

Mrs. Darrell received the compliment very modestly, and then tried to persuade Milly to sing or play; but the girl declined resolutely.  Nothing could induce her to touch the piano after that brilliant performance.

The next day and several days passed very quietly, and in a kind of monotonous comfort.  The rector of the parish dined with us one day, and on another a neighbouring squire with his wife and three daughters.  Milly and I spent a good deal of our time in the gardens and on the sea-shore, with Julian Stormont for our companion, while Mr. and Mrs. Darrell rode or drove together.  My darling could see that she was not expected to join them in these rides and drives, and I think this confirmed her idea that her father was in a manner lost to her.

‘I must try to be satisfied with this new state of things, Mary,’ she said, with a sigh of resignation.  ’If my father is happy, I ought to be contented.  But O, my dear, if you could have seen us together a year ago, you would know how much I have lost.’