d her.

They were drifting in more ways than one. Wenna almost forgot what had
occurred in the morning. She was so pleased to see her mother pleased
that she conversed quite unreservedly with the young man who had
wrought the change, was ready to believe all that Mrs. Rosewarne said
in private about his being so delightful and cheerful a companion. As
for him, he was determined to profit by this last opportunity. If the
Strict rules of honor demanded that Mr. Roscorla should have fair
play, or if Wenna wished him to absent himself--which was of more
consequence than Mr. Roscorla's interest--he would make his visits few
and formal, but in the mean time, at least, they would have this one
pleasant afternoon together. Sometimes, it is true, he rebelled
against the uncertain pledge he had given her. Why should he not seek
to win her? What had the strict rules of honor to do with the prospect
of a young girl allowing herself to be sacrificed, while here he was,
able and willing to snatch her away from her fate?

"How fond you are of the sea and of boats!" he said to her. "Sometimes
I think I shall have a big schooner yacht built for myself, and take
her to the Mediterranean, going from place to place just as I have the
fancy. But it would be very dull by one's self, wouldn't it, even if
one had a dozen men on What one wants is to have a small party all
very friendly with each other, and at night they would sit up on deck
and sing songs. And I think they would admire those old-fashioned
songs that you sing, Miss Wenna, all the better for hearing them so
far away from home--at least, I should, but then I'm an outer
barbarian. I think you, now, would be delighted with the grand music
abroad--with the operas, you know, and all that. I have had to knock
about these places with people, but I don't care about it. I would
rather hear 'Norah, the Pride of Kildare,' or 'The Maid of
Llangollen,' because, I suppose, those young women are more in my
line. You see, I shouldn't care to make the acquaintance of a gorgeous
creature with black hair and a train of yellow satin half a mile long,
who tosses up a gilt goblet when she sings a drinking-song, and then
gets into a frightful passion about what one doesn't understand.
Wouldn't you rather meet the 'Maid of Llangollen' coming along a
country road--coming in by Marazion over there, for example--with a
bright print dress all smelling of lavender, and a basket of fresh
eggs over her arm?