They joined the two on the terrace, and presently they were all laughing together at Saltash's drolleries. He knew how to bring effervescence to the very quietest waters. They sat for a space on a seat in the soft spring starlight, while below them on the down there thrilled the unspeakable music of nightingales singing far and near. Then after a while Jake strolled away for his nightly inspection of the stables, taking Bunny with him, and Saltash and Maud were left alone. He moved close to her at once, his arm stretched behind her along the back of the seat. At their feet lay an old red setter, Chops, who had belonged to Jake before his marriage and had devoted himself to Maud ever since. "By Jove, this is peaceful!" said Saltash, and stopped to caress the old dog with a gentle hand. "Do you know, Maud, it's a good thing you never married me if this sort of thing makes you happy." She smiled her quiet, contented smile. "I think it is a good thing too, Charlie. It certainly would never have satisfied you." "Nothing does," he declared restlessly. "I'm a wanderer on the face of the earth, and I don't pick up much as I go along. I'm getting old, you know. Life isn't what it was." Maud was silent for a few moments, the starlight in her eyes. "I sometimes wonder," she said at length, "if you have ever really lived yet." He laughed on a mocking note. "My dear girl, I--who have done everything!" She shook her head. "No, not everything, Charlie." "Everything that's bad," he suggested recklessly. She put out a hand to him that went into his quick hold and lay there with perfect confidence. "I don't think you're really old," she said. "I think you're just beginning to grow up. No, don't laugh! I am quite serious. You are just beginning to discriminate between the things that are worth while and those that are not." "Is anything worth while?" said Saltash. "Yes, yes. Heaps of things. But not the things you care for,--not just the wild pleasures of life. Charlie, I'm not good at expressing things, and I'm afraid--just a little--of trespassing, even though we are such old friends." Her voice had a wistful note. He carried her hand to his lips. "_Ma belle reine_, is it possible? You?" Her fingers closed upon his. "I hate you to be world-tired and lonely. But I would rather have you that than feeding on husks." "I'm not doing that at the present moment," he said. "I'm living like a beastly hermit--except that I cut my nails and brush my hair occasionally. You've heard about the woman on the yacht, of course?" Her silence answered him, and he laughed again. "A lie, _chère reine_! There was no woman." "Oh, Charlie!" she said impulsively. "Forgive me for believing it!" He made a royal gesture. "I forgive you. Moreover, the lie was not without foundation. There was a child on board of the female species,--very small and badly frightened. We saved her between us, Larpent and I. She belongs to Larpent--not to me."