"Reine:--I will be with you in fifteen minutes. "VANE." Totally forgetting, in his flurry, to put her name upon it, he doubles the sheet and puts it into the lad's hand with a generous silver piece. "Now, fly back to the lady, you young scamp," he apostrophizes. As if the reward had lent wings to his feet, the urchin runs lightly along the sandy shore, and disappears in the distance. Vane takes a turn up and down the balcony to steady his nerves. He has had what some people are wont to call a "turn." The authors and invalids eye him with blended curiosity and admiration. It is not often that a handsome, comely young fellow like this anchors his bark in this "Haven of Rest." "She has followed me here," Vane is saying to himself, through his compressed lips. "Now, I call _that_ downright bold and unwomanly. It proves to me more and more how unwise a choice was forced upon me by Mr. Langton's perverse will. Why did he let her come? And how the deuce am I to get rid of her? For I swear I won't live with her, at least not yet." So saying, he flings on his hat and starts off at a swinging pace along the sands toward the hotel. "I must see what she wants," he says, under his breath, and gnawing the ends of his golden-brown mustache savagely, while the _habitues_ of the place watch him carelessly, little thinking that the handsome American is going unwillingly to the bonniest bride all England holds. * * * * * He had called her "bold and unwomanly," yet in his heart he is forced to retract the words when he finds himself in her presence, and the spell of her dark, bright beauty throws its glamor over him, against his will. For Reine, with the pardonable vanity of "lovely woman," has hastened to make herself fair for her husband's coming. In London, while they rested and searched for Vane, Mr. Langton has bought her a box of what he calls "fine things." Among them is a sheer, white India muslin morning robe, trimmed with a profusion of fine, rich lace. Nothing could be lovelier than Reine in this dainty robe, with deep-hearted crimson roses in her hair and at her belt. The slight, graceful figure advances to the center of the pretty morning parlor, then pauses suddenly, while the curling, black lashes flutter and fall till they waver against the burning crimson cheeks. "You sent for me?" he says, abruptly, noting her sudden shame and confusion with ungenerous malice. "Yes, I--I----" she pauses, and throws up her girlish white hands as if to ward off a blow. "Oh, do not look at me so," she says, imploringly. "I _know_ what you are thinking and saying to yourself. It is that--that I am bold, forward, unlady-like, to have followed you here, when you," a choking sob, quickly suppressed, "when you despise me so!"