"Hum, yes. You like it--as well as Saint Malo, the boating, and that
quaint Breton woman where we lodged?"

"Of course. The flowers and the pine woods--it is one glorious garden.
Papa liked the yachting, though."

"Yes; but after three months out here I shall be glad to see smoky old
London again."

"Yes," said Myra meaningly, "I suppose so."

Edie glanced at her sidewise in a quick, sharp way, but was silent for a
few minutes. When her cousin spoke:

"Let's go and coax papa out for a good ramble till dinner--I mean
supper--time."

"No good; he would not come. Piquet, coffee, and cigars. Do you like
this Mr Barron, Myra?"

"_Oh, yes, well enough_. He is very clever and well informed. He can
talk pleasantly about anything, especially about yachting and the sea,
and of course papa likes that."

"Talks too much, I think. I'd rather sit and listen to quiet,
thoughtful Mr Stratton."

"I suppose so," said Myra rather dryly; and then hastened to add, "and
Mr Guest."

"Yes, and to Mr Guest," said her cousin, again looking at her sharply,
and as if the words had stung.

Myra met her glance, and hurriedly changed the conversation.

"Look, what a change there is on the lake, dear," she said. "How
glowing the water is."

"Yes, and yet some people prefer playing cards to studying nature."

"Papa is no longer young. He has enjoyed scenery all over the world and
likes rest now, and a game of cards."

"I was not talking about uncle, dear."

"About Mr Barron, then? Dear me, what a sagacious nod. Edie dear,
don't think out romances. Let's enjoy the matter of fact and real.
Ready for a walk?"

Edie held up her hat by one string, and put it on ready to descend with
her cousin to a lower balcony, on another frontage of the house, where,
seated at a table, with coffee, cigars, and a pack of cards, was the
admiral, and, facing him, a rather heavily built man, with some
pretensions to being handsome. He was plainly and well dressed, of the
easy manners of one accustomed to all kinds of society, and apparently
rather proud of his white, carefully tended hands.

As he turned a little more to the light in bending to remove the ash
from his cigar, streaks of grey showed in his closely cut beard and
crisp, dark hair. In addition there was a suggestion of wrinkling about
the corners and beneath his eyes, the work more of an arduous life than
age.

As he rose to replace the cigar between his lips he smiled