he thrilled. Where had she heard that
phrase? At the _Walkuere_!

"You darling," he said; "who could help it?"

"Oh, but--" she pouted now. "Oh, but you can help it often--if you
like."

"But, you see, I don't like. I should hate myself if I thought that I
could."

"Do let me take your glass away for one minute."

"You may do what you please with it, or me."

The glass in eclipse, she looked down at him, considering, hesitating,
choosing, poised. "Oh, I was right. You look much nicer without it.
Some day I'll tell you."

He took her hand and kept it. "Some day you shall tell me a number of
things."

She did not cease to look at him, but he saw fear in her eyes. "Some
day, perhaps, but not yet."

"No," said he, "not yet--perhaps."

"Will you trust me?"

"I always have."

She sighed. "Oh, you are good. I didn't know how good." Then she
turned to go. "I told you I was going--and I am. Good night."

He put his book down. She let his eyeglass fall. He drew her to his
knee, and looked at her.

"It's not good night," he said. "That's to come."

She gave him a startled, wide look, and then her lips, before she
fled.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE HARDANGER

That enchanted land of sea and rock, of mountains rooted in the water,
and water which pierces the secret valleys of the mountains, worked
its spell upon our travellers, and freed them from themselves for a
while. For awhile they were as singleminded as the boys, content to
live and breathe that wine-tinctured air, and watch out those flawless
days and serene grey nights. London had sophisticated some of them
almost beyond redemption: Francis Lingen was less man than sensitive
gelatine; James was the offspring of a tradition and a looking-glass.
But the zest and high spirits of Urquhart were catching, and after a
week Francis Lingen ceased to murmur to ladies in remote corners, and
James to care whether his clothes were pressed. Everybody behaved
well: Urquhart, who believed that he possessed Lucy's heart, James,
who knew now what he possessed, Vera Nugent, who was content to sit
and look on, and Lucy herself, who simply and honestly forgot
everything except the beauty of the world, and the joy of physical
exertion. She had been wofully ill on the passage from Newcastle and
had been invisible from beginning to end. But from the moment of
landing at Bergen she had been transformed. She was now the sister of
her son, a wild, wilful, impetuous creature,