It was late the next morning when the precious pair joined me in the garden, and when we went in for breakfast we found the dining-room quite empty.  We did not enjoy it as on the morning previous; the cuisine was of the kind usually—­and in this case justly—­described as “superior,” but we did not have the same edge on our appetite.

We were not very talkative; I myself was almost taciturn, having before me the necessity of coming to an understanding with Harry, a task which I was far from relishing.  But there were certain things I must know.

“What do you say to a ride down the valley?” said Harry.  “They have excellent horses here; I tried one of ’em the other day.”

“I trust that they bear no resemblance to my donkey,” said I with feeling.

“Ugh!” said Le Mire with a shudder.  “Never shall I forget that ride.  Besides,” she added, turning to Harry, “this morning I would be in the way.  Don’t you know that your brother has a thousand things to say to you?  He wants to scold you; you must remember that you are a very bad boy.”

And she sent me a glance half defiant, half indifferent, which plainly said:  “If I fight you, I shall win; but I really care very little about it one way or the other.”

After breakfast she went to her room—­to have her hair dressed, she said—­and I led Harry to a secluded corner of the magnificent grounds surrounding the hotel.  During the walk we were both silent:  Harry, I suppose, was wondering what I was going to say, while I was trying to make up my own mind.

“I suppose,” he began abruptly, “you are going to tell me I have acted like a fool.  Go ahead; the sooner it’s over the better.”

“Nothing of the sort,” said I, glad that he had opened it.

He stopped short, demanding to know what I meant.

“Of course,” I continued, “Le Mire is a most amazing prize.  Not exactly my style perhaps, but there are few men in the world who wouldn’t envy you.  I congratulate you.

“But there were two things I feared for several reasons—­Le Mire’s fascination, your own youth and impulsive recklessness, and the rather curious mode of your departure.  I feared first and most that you would marry her; second, that you would achieve odium and publicity for our name.”

Harry was regarding me with a smile which had in it very little of amusement; it held a tinge of bitterness.

“And so,” he burst out suddenly, “you were afraid I would marry her!  Well, I would.  The last time I asked her”—­again the smile—­“was this morning.”

“And—­”

“She won’t have me.”

“Bah!” I concealed my surprise, for I had really not thought it possible that the lad could be such a fool.  “What’s her game, Harry?”

“Game the deuce!  I tell you she won’t have me.”

“You have asked her?”

“A thousand times.  I’ve begged her on my knees.  Offered her—­anything.”