With a few more words Christie took leave, and scandalized the sable retainer by smiling all through the hall, and laughing audibly as the door closed.  The contrast of the plaid boy and beruffled girl’s irritability with their mother’s languid affectation, and her own unfortunate efforts, was too much for her.  In the middle of her merriment she paused suddenly, saying to herself: 

“I never told about my acting.  I must go back and have it settled.”  She retraced a few steps, then turned and went on again, thinking, “No; for once I’ll be guided by other people’s advice, and let well alone.”

A note arrived soon after, bidding Miss Devon consider herself engaged, and desiring her to join the family at the boat on Monday next.

At the appointed time Christie was on board, and looked about for her party.  Mrs. Saltonstall appeared in the distance with her family about her, and Christie took a survey before reporting herself.  Madame looked more like a fashion-plate than ever, in a mass of green flounces, and an impressive bonnet flushed with poppies and bristling with wheat-ears.  Beside her sat a gentleman, rapt in a newspaper, of course, for to an American man life is a burden till the daily news have been absorbed.  Mrs. Saltonstall’s brother was the possessor of a handsome eye without softness, thin lips without benevolence, but plenty of will; a face and figure which some thirty-five years of ease and pleasure had done their best to polish and spoil, and a costume without flaw, from his aristocratic boots to the summer hat on his head.

The little boy more checkered and the little girl more operatic than before, sat on stools eating bonbons, while a French maid and the African footman hovered in the background.

Mrs. Saltonstall and family.

Feeling very much like a meek gray moth among a flock of butterflies, Christie modestly presented herself.

“Good morning,” said Madame with a nod, which, slight as it was, caused a great commotion among the poppies and the wheat; “I began to be anxious about you.  Miss Devon, my brother, Mr. Fletcher.”

The gentleman bowed, and as Christie sat down he got up, saying, as he sauntered away with a bored expression: 

“Will you have the paper, Charlotte?  There’s nothing in it.”

As Mrs. Saltonstall seemed going to sleep and she felt delicate about addressing the irritable infants in public, Christie amused herself by watching Mr. Fletcher as he roamed listlessly about, and deciding, in her usual rash way, that she did not like him because he looked both lazy and cross, and ennui was evidently his bosom friend.  Soon, however, she forgot every thing but the shimmer of the sunshine on the sea, the fresh wind that brought color to her pale cheeks, and the happy thoughts that left a smile upon her lips.  Then Mr. Fletcher put up his glass and stared at her, shook his head, and said, as he lit a cigar: