was, and viewed as he viewed them from above, were singularly beautiful
in their unconstraint. It was in its way like watching some remarkable
fine dancing, he thought. He could not see much of her face, from his
perch, but she was tall and fashionably clad. There was a loose covering
of black lace thrown over her head, but once, as she turned, he could
see that her hair was red. Even in this fleeting glimpse, the unusual
tint attracted his attention: there was a brilliancy as of fire in it.
Somehow it seemed to make a claim upon his memory. He continued to stare
down at the stranger with an indefinable sense that he knew something
about her.

Suddenly another figure appeared upon the balcony--and in a flash he
comprehended everything. These idiotic, fighting gluttons of gulls
had actually pointed out to him the object of his search. It was
Lady Cressage who stood in the doorway, there just below him--and her
companion, the red-haired lady who laughed hotel-rules to scorn, was the
American heiress who had crossed the ocean in his ship, and whom he
had met later on at Hadlow. What was her name--Martin? No--Madden. He
confronted the swift impression that there was something odd about these
two women being together. At Hadlow he had imagined that they did not
like each other. Then he reflected as swiftly that women probably had
their own rules about such matters. He seemed to have heard, or read,
perhaps, that females liked and disliked each other with the most
capricious alternations and on the least tangible of grounds. At all
events, here they were together now. That was quite enough.

The two ladies had gone in, and closed their window. The sophisticated
birds, with a few ungrateful croaks of remonstrance, had drifted away
again to the water. His niece had disappeared from his elbow. Still
Thorpe remained with his arms folded on the railing, his eyes fixed on
the vacant balcony, below to the left.

When at last he went inside, the young people were waiting for him with
the project of a stroll before dinner. The light was failing, but there
was plenty of time. They had ascertained the direction in which Chillon
lay; a servant had assured them that it was only a few minutes' walk,
and Alfred was almost certain that he had seen it from the window.

Thorpe assented with a certain listlessness, which they had never noted
in his manner before, but when Julia begged him not to stir if he were
in the slightest degree tired,