mind to it. Gordon Wright and his wife were out of town, but Bernard
went into the country, as boldly as you please, to inform them of
his little project and take a long leave of them. He had made his
arrangements to sail immediately, and, as at such short notice it was
impossible to find good quarters on one of the English vessels, he had
engaged a berth on a French steamer, which would convey him to Havre. On
going down to Gordon's house in the country, he was conscious of a good
deal of eagerness to know what had become of that latent irritation
of which Blanche had given him a specimen. Apparently it had quite
subsided; Blanche was wreathed in smiles; she was living in a bower of
roses. Bernard, indeed, had no opportunity for investigating her state
of mind, for he found several people in the house, and Blanche, who had
an exalted standard of the duties of a hostess, was occupied in making
life agreeable to her guests, most of whom were gentlemen. She had
in this way that great remedy for dissatisfaction which Bernard
lacked--something interesting to do. Bernard felt a good deal of genuine
sadness in taking leave of Gordon, to whom he contrived to feel even
more kindly than in earlier days. He had quite forgotten that Gordon
was jealous of him--which he was not, as Bernard said. Certainly, Gordon
showed nothing of it now, and nothing could have been more friendly than
their parting. Gordon, also, for a man who was never boisterous, seemed
very contented. He was fond of exercising hospitality, and he confessed
to Bernard that he was just now in the humor for having his house full
of people. Fortune continued to gratify this generous taste; for just as
Bernard was coming away another guest made his appearance. The new-comer
was none other than the Honourable Augustus Lovelock, who had just
arrived in New York, and who, as he added, had long desired to visit the
United States. Bernard merely witnessed his arrival, and was struck
with the fact that as he presented himself--it seemed quite a
surprise--Blanche really stopped chattering.

CHAPTER XIX

I have called it a stale expedient on Bernard Longueville's part to "go
to Europe" again, like the most commonplace American; and it is certain
that, as our young man stood and looked out of the window of his inn at
Havre, an hour after his arrival at that sea-port, his adventure did
not strike him as having any great freshness. He had no plans nor
intentions; he h