r she went on board Sir Edmund's yacht.

Edmund Grosse had most distinctly made up his mind that during those
weeks he would not betray any ulterior motive whatever. They were all to
be amused and to be happy. There is no knowing when an interlude of
happiness will come in life; it is not enough to make out perfect plans,
the best fail us. But sometimes, quite unforeseen, when all the weather
signs are contrary, there come intervals of sunshine in our hearts, in
spite of any circumstances and the most uninteresting surroundings.
Harmony is proclaimed for a little while, and we wonder why things were
black before, and have to remember that they will be black again. But
when such a truce to pain falls in the happiest setting, and the most
glorious scenery, then rejoice and be glad, it is a real truce of God.
So did Rose night by night rejoice without trembling. It wanted much
skill on Edmund's part to ward off any scruples, any moments of
consciousness. He showed great self-command, surprising self-discipline
in carrying out his tactics. There were moments when their talk had
slid into great intimacy, when they were close together in heart and in
mind, and he slipped back into the commonplace only just in time. There
were moments, especially on the return journey, when he could hardly
hide his sense of how gracious and delicious was her presence, how acute
her instincts, how quaintly and attractively simple her mind, how big
her spiritual outlook. But before she could have more than a suspicion
of his thoughts Edmund would make any consciousness seem absurd by a
comment on the doings of the very young people on board.

"The child does look happy," he said in his laziest voice one evening
when he knew his look had been bent for a rashly long moment on Rose.
"Happy and pretty," he murmured to himself, and he watched his youngest
guest with earnestness. Then he sat down near Rose on a low deck-chair,
and put away the glasses he held in his pocket. "I'm not sure I don't
get as much pleasure out of the hazy world I see about me as you
long-sighted people do; the colours are marvellous." Rose looked at him
in surprise.

"But Edmund, don't you see more than haze?"

"Oh, yes, I can see a foreground, and then the rest melts away. I don't
know what is meant by a middle distance--that's why I can't shoot."

Rose sat up with an eager look on her face. "I never knew that; I only
thought you did not care for shooting."

There was