Somehow, with all the opportunities, the suit of our friend did not advance beyond a certain point.  Irene was always cordial, always friendly, but he tried in vain to ascertain whether the middle-aged man from Boston had touched her imagination.  There was a boating party the next evening in Frenchman’s Bay, and King had the pleasure of pulling Miss Benson and Miss Lamont out seaward under the dark, frowning cliffs until they felt the ocean swell, and then of making the circuit of Porcupine Island.  It was an enchanting night, full of mystery.  The rock face of the Porcupine glistened white in the moonlight as if it were encrusted with salt, the waves beat in a continuous roar against its base, which is honeycombed by the action of the water, and when the boat glided into its shadow it loomed up vast and wonderful.  Seaward were the harbor lights, the phosphorescent glisten of the waves, the dim forms of other islands; all about in the bay row-boats darted in and out of the moonlight, voices were heard calling from boat to boat, songs floated over the water, and the huge Portland steamer came plunging in out of the night, a blazing, trembling monster.  Not much was said in the boat, but the impression of such a night goes far in the romance of real life.

Perhaps it was this impression that made her assent readily to a walk next morning with Mr. King along the bay.  The shore is nearly all occupied by private cottages, with little lawns running down to the granite edge of the water.  It is a favorite place for strolling; couples establish themselves with books and umbrellas on the rocks, children are dabbling in the coves, sails enliven the bay, row-boats dart about, the cawing of crows is heard in the still air.  Irene declared that the scene was idyllic.  The girl was in a most gracious humor, and opened her life more to King than she had ever done before.  By such confidences usually women invite avowals, and as the two paced along, King felt the moment approach when there would be the most natural chance in the world for him to tell this woman what she was to him; at the next turn in the shore, by that rock, surely the moment would come.  What is this airy nothing by which women protect themselves in such emergencies, by a question, by a tone, an invisible strong barrier that the most impetuous dare not attempt to break?

King felt the subtle restraint which he could not define or explain.  And before he could speak she said:  “We are going away tomorrow.”  “We?  And who are we?” “Oh, the Simpkinses and our whole family, and Mr. Meigs.”  “And where?”

“Mr. Meigs has persuaded mother into the wildest scheme.  It is nothing less than to leap from, here across all the intervening States to the White Sulphur Springs in Virginia.  Father falls into the notion because he wants to see more of the Southerners, Mrs. Simpkins and her daughter are crazy to go, and Mr. Meigs says he has been trying to get there all his life, and in August the season is at its height.  It was all arranged before I was consulted, but I confess I rather like it.  It will be a change.”