I’ll tell you what she likes:  she likes yachting, she likes Italy, she likes painting, likes things old English, awfully fond of heroes.  I told her a tale of one of our men saving life.  “Oh!” said she, “didn’t your friend Nevil Beauchamp save a man from drowning, off the guardship, in exactly the same place?” And next day she sent me a cheque for three pounds for the fellow.  Steady, men!  I keep her letter.’

The boat went smoothly alongside the schooner.  Miss Halkett had come to the side.  The oars swung fore and aft, and Beauchamp sprang on deck.

Wilmore had to decline Miss Halkett’s invitation to him as well as his friend, and returned in his boat.  He left the pair with a ruffling breeze, and a sky all sail, prepared, it seemed to him, to enjoy the most delicious you-and-I on salt water that a sailor could dream of; and placidly envying, devoid of jealousy, there was just enough of fancy quickened in Lieutenant Wilmore to give him pictures of them without disturbance of his feelings—­one of the conditions of the singular visitation we call happiness, if he could have known it.

For a time his visionary eye followed them pretty correctly.  So long since they had parted last! such changes in the interval! and great animation in Beauchamp’s gaze, and a blush on Miss Halkett’s cheeks.

She said once, ‘Captain Beauchamp.’  He retorted with a solemn formality.  They smiled, and immediately took footing on their previous intimacy.

‘How good it was of you to come twice to Mount Laurels,’ said she.  ’I have not missed you to-day.  No address was on your card.  Where are you staying in the neighbourhood?  At Mr. Lespel’s?’

‘I’m staying at a Bevisham hotel,’ said Beauchamp.

’You have not been to Steynham yet?  Papa comes home from Steynham to-night.’

’Does he?  Well, the Ariadne is only just paid off, and I can’t well go to Steynham yet.  I—­’ Beauchamp was astonished at the hesitation he found in himself to name it:  ‘I have business in Bevisham.’

‘Naval business?’ she remarked.

‘No,’ said he.

The sensitive prescience we have of a critical distaste of our proceedings is, the world is aware, keener than our intuition of contrary opinions; and for the sake of preserving the sweet outward forms of friendliness, Beauchamp was anxious not to speak of the business in Bevisham just then, but she looked and he had hesitated, so he said flatly, ‘I am one of the candidates for the borough.’

‘Indeed!’

‘And I want the colonel to give me his vote.’

The young lady breathed a melodious ‘Oh!’ not condemnatory or reproachful—­a sound to fill a pause.  But she was beginning to reflect.