"If you could have seen the world awakening as I saw it, this morning, you would condone my offence," he answered, a curious expression Ethel thought she had detected in his eyes leaving them unclouded, as he spoke. Chapter III No one who knew Stephen Cranbrooke well could say he did anything by halves. In the days that followed his arrival at Mount Desert, Max Pollock saw that his friend was lending every effort to the task of establishing friendly relations with his wife. From her first half-petulant, half-cordial manner with him,--the manner of a woman who tries to please her husband by recognition of the claim of his nearest male intimate,--Ethel had passed to the degree of manifestly welcoming Cranbrooke's presence, both when with her husband and without him. As Max saw this growing friendship, he strove to increase it by absenting himself from Ethel, instead of, as heretofore, spending every hour he could wring from the society of other folk, in the light of her smiles. His one wish that Ethel might be insensibly led to find another than himself companionable; that she might be, though never so little, weaned from her absolute dependence upon him for daily happiness, before the blow fell that was to plunge her in darkest night, kept him content in these acts of self-sacrifice. But, as was inevitable, his manner toward them both underwent a trifling change. His old buoyancy of affection was succeeded by a quiet, at times wistful, recognition of the fact that his friend and his wife had now found another interest besides himself. But he was proud to see Cranbrooke had justified his boast that he "could be fascinating when he chose;" and he was glad to think Cranbrooke at last realized the charm Ethel, apparently a mere bright bubble upon the tide of society, had to a man of intellect and heart. "It was as I said," the poor fellow repeated to himself, trying to find comfort in the realization of his prescience; and when Ethel, alone with him, would break into pæans of his friend, and wonder how she could have been so blind to the "real man" before, Max answered her loyally that his highest wish for both of them was at last gratified. Then the day came when there was question of a companion for Ethel in a sailing-party to which she had accepted an invitation--and for Max was destined an emotion something like distaste. They were sitting over the breakfast table,--a meal no longer exclusive to wife and husband, as had been agreed, but shared by Cranbrooke with due regularity,--when Ethel broached the subject. "You know, Max, I was foolish enough to promise that irresistible Mrs. Clayton--when she would not take no for an answer, yesterday,--that _some_ of us would join her water party to-day. It is to be an idle cruise, with no especial aim--luncheon on board their schooner-yacht; the sort of thing I knew would bore you to extinction--being huddled up with the same people half the day."