The evenings of that matchless May and June were full of peaceful joy,--long drives through Rock Creek Park or the beautiful winding ways of the Soldiers' Home, with now and then a row upon the river past old Georgetown, with its windows blinking at the setting sun, and back again when it lay steeped in moonlight, and they floated lazily down toward the Monument which dominated the landscape whichever way they turned,--heeding not time nor aught else so that only they were together and away from all the world. Ah! it was idyllic while it lasted, but it palled at last, the least bit, upon Victor, and then they sought the seashore, Margaret saying to herself that it was her choice to go. At the seashore, as it chanced, there was a gay crowd from Baltimore that Victor knew, and things gave promise of being very pleasant, but unfortunately Margaret was not well when they first reached the place, nor for some time afterwards--not ill enough to hinder Victor's going, as she insisted earnestly, but in a way that kept her quiet upon the hotel piazza. She was not strong enough to take the jaunts the others enjoyed. Victor demurred at first, saying he would not think of leaving her, but it was a very pleasant party, and men are always in demand at seaside resorts. So in the end he went. The Baltimore party was not going to remain long and they made hay with a zest that was fatiguing to one not quite robust. One morning, as Margaret sat on the piazza watching the waves roll in and back, in and back, with a ceaseless energy that somehow seemed so futile, always trying to do something, but never accomplishing it, Victor came out from the smoking-room and threw himself at her feet on the steps. "How are you feeling by this time, sweetheart?" he asked, with a tenderness that somehow seemed to belong to Washington and the Maytime rather than this crowded summer hotel. It brought quick tears to her eyes. The girl was very weak. "Rather better, thank you," she said, smiling down at him in a languid way that belied her words. "It is deucedly unfortunate about your having this little attack just now," he said, fanning himself with his hat and frowning a little. He was very young. "You are losing so many good times." "I am living on the memory of our good times in Washington," Margaret said. Which was truer than she knew. "Oh! They were all right, weren't they? We did have a good time. It's a pity that kind of thing can't last. But you see if you felt equal to it you could have some good times now of a different sort. Dillingham wants us to go on a yachting trip." "When?" Margaret asked it rather listlessly. "To-morrow. It's going to be an awfully jolly party. They are going for an all-day's trip--luncheon on the yacht and all that. How do you feel about it?" "Victor, I could not possibly go. I am not well enough." He bit his lip and looked annoyed.