conversational smile. Felix, standing on the threshold of the cottage, hesitated for a moment as to whether he should retrace his steps and enter the parlor. Then he went his way and passed into Mr. Wentworth's garden. That civilizing process to which he had suggested that Clifford should be subjected appeared to have come on of itself. Felix was very sure, at least, that Mr. Wentworth had not adopted his ingenious device for stimulating the young man's aesthetic consciousness. 'Doubtless he supposes,' he said to himself, after the conversation that has been narrated, 'that I desire, out of fraternal benevolence, to procure for Eugenia the amusement of a flirtation—or, as he probably calls it, an intrigue—with the too susceptible Clifford. It must be admitted—and I have noticed it before—that nothing exceeds the license occasionally taken by the imagination of very rigid people.' Felix, on his own side, had of course said nothing to Clifford; but he had observed to Eugenia that Mr. Wentworth was much mortified at his son's low tastes. 'We ought to do something to help them, after all their kindness to us,' he had added. 'Encourage Clifford to come and see you, and inspire him with a taste for conversation. That will supplant the other, which only comes from his puerility, from his not taking his position in the world—that of a rich young man of ancient stock—seriously enough. Make him a little more serious. Even if he makes love to you it is no great matter.'
'I am to offer myself as a superior form of intoxication—a substitute for a brandy bottle, eh?' asked the Baroness. 'Truly, in this country one comes to strange uses.'
But she had not positively declined to undertake Clifford's higher education, and Felix, who had not thought of the matter again, being haunted with visions of more personal profit, now reflected that the work of redemption had fairly begun. The idea in prospect had seemed of the happiest, but in operation it made him a trifle uneasy. 'What if Eugenia—what if Eugenia'—he asked himself softly; the question dying away in his sense of Eugenia's undetermined capacity. But before Felix had time either to accept or to reject its admonition, even in this vague form, he saw Robert Acton turn out of Mr. Wentworth's inclosure, by a distant gate, and come toward the cottage in the orchard. Acton had evidently walked from his own house along a shady by-way and was intending to pay a visit to Madame Munster. Felix watched him a moment; then he turned away. Acton could be left to play the part of Providence and interrupt—if interruption were needed—Clifford's entanglement with Eugenia.
Felix passed through the garden toward the house and toward a postern gate which opened upon a path leading across the fields, beside a little wood, to the lake. He stopped and looked up at the house; his eyes rested more particularly upon a certain open window, on the shady side. Presently Gertrude appeared there, looking out into the summer light. He took off his hat to her and bade her good-day; he remarked that he was going to row across the pond, and begged that she would do him the honor to accompany him. She looked at him a moment; then, without saying anything, she turned away. But she soon reappeared below in one of those quaint and charming Leghorn hats, tied with white satin bows, that were worn at that period; she also carried a green parasol. She went with him to the edge of the lake, where a couple of boats were always moored; they got into one of them, and Felix, with gentle strokes, propelled it to the opposite shore. The day was the perfection of summer weather; the little lake was the color of sunshine; the plash of the oars was the only sound, and they found themselves listening to it. They disembarked, and, by a winding path, ascended the pine-crested mound which overlooked the water, whose white expanse glittered between the trees. The place was delightfully cool, and had the added charm that—in the softly sounding pine boughs—you seemed to hear the coolness as well as feel it. Felix and Gertrude sat down on the rust-colored carpet of pine-needles and talked of many things. Felix spoke at last, in the course of talk, of his going away; it was the first time he had alluded to it.
'You are going away?' said Gertrude, looking at him.
'Some day—when the leaves begin to fall. You know I can't stay forever.'
Gertrude transferred her eyes to the outer prospect, and then, after a pause, she said, 'I shall never see you again.'
'Why not?' asked Felix. 'We shall probably both survive my departure.'
But Gertrude only repeated, 'I shall never see you again. I shall never hear of you,' she went on. 'I shall know nothing about you. I knew nothing about you before, and it will be the same again.'
'I knew nothing about you then, unfortunately,' said Felix. 'But now I shall write to you.'
'Don't write to me. I shall not answer you,' Gertrude declared.
'I should of course burn your letters,' said Felix.
Gertrude looked at him again. 'Burn my letters? You sometimes say strange things.'
'They are not strange in themselves,' the young man answered. 'They are only strange as said to you. You will come to Europe.'
'With whom shall I come?' She asked this question simply; she was very much in earnest. Felix was interested in her earnestness; for some moments he hesitated. 'You can't tell me that,' she pursued. 'You can't say that I shall go with my father and my sister; you don't believe that.'
'I shall keep your letters,' said Felix, presently, for all answer.
'I never write. I don't know how to write.' Gertrude, for some time, said nothing more; and her companion, as he looked at her, wished it had not been 'disloyal' to make love to the daughter of an old gentleman who had offered one hospitality. The afternoon waned; the shadows stretched themselves; and the light grew deeper in the western sky. Two persons appeared on the opposite side of the lake, coming from the house and crossing the meadow. 'It is Charlotte and Mr. Brand,' said Gertrude. 'They are coming over here.' But Charlotte and Mr. Brand only came down to the edge of the water, and stood there, looking across; they made no motion to enter the boat that Felix had left at the mooring-place. Felix waved his hat to them; it was too far to call. They made no visible response, and they presently turned away and walked along the shore.
'Mr. Brand is not demonstrative,' said Felix. 'He is never demonstrative to me. He sits silent, with his chin in his hand, looking at me. Sometimes he looks away. Your father tells me he is so eloquent; and I should like to hear him talk. He looks like such a noble young man. But with me he will never talk. And yet I am so fond of listening to brilliant imagery!'
'He is very eloquent,' said Gertrude; 'but he has no brilliant imagery. I have heard him talk a great deal. I knew that when they saw us they would not come over here.'
'Ah, he is making la cour, as they say, to your sister? They desire to be alone?'
'No,' said Gertrude, gravely, 'they have no such reason as that for being alone.'
'But why does n't he make la cour to Charlotte?' Felix inquired. 'She is so pretty, so gentle, so good.'
Gertrude glanced at him, and then she looked at the distantly-seen couple they were discussing. Mr. Brand and Charlotte were walking side by side. They might have been a pair of lovers, and yet they might not. 'They think I should not be here,' said Gertrude.
