Before she can reply, Sir George Wilde comes up to them. His eyes rest admiringly on the beautiful, graceful, dark-eyed girl by the side of Vane Charteris. "Sentimentalizing and reading poetry?" says the intruder, looking at Reine's book. "Upon my word it is simply shocking, the number of flirtations going on this evening. Miss Langton, let me see your verses," coolly taking the open volume from her hand. Vane, looking off to sea, unreasonably vexed, and out of humor, hears him reading in a clear, full voice, the lines on which Reine's hands have been closely folded since he sat down by her. "'We stand at the window watching, Oh, God! through the glass of time, For the sails of our hopes to blossom Out on life's horizon line. "'And we see not across the islands The clouds that come up the sun, Until they have folded in silence The headlands one by one. "'And the winds to each other calling Over the waters pass, And we say: "They are wrecked at dawning, The hopes of our lives, alas!"'" "Lugubrious reading, certainly," comments the lively young baronet. "Does Charteris enjoy that style of poetry for a summer evening by the sea?" "I--I was not reading to Mr. Charteris," the girl stammers, vaguely confused. "I was reading when he came, and then I laid the book down." Both men regard her a little gravely. The touch of sadness in face and voice is strange, yet sweet, in the young and lovely girl. Sir George tells himself that there is some depth to this lovely American girl, and wonders why Charteris doesn't fall in love with her. For himself, he is very far gone indeed, and Vane, irritated by his society, abruptly announces that he will go up and see Mr. Langton. "He will be very pleased, I know," Reine answers, brightening suddenly, and Vane turns away with a sudden angry conviction that she is glad to have him gone. Sir George is glad at least, there can be no two opinions as to that. He settles himself delightedly in Vane's vacated chair. CHAPTER XVII. "I have a proposition to make to you," Vane says, after he has conversed with Mr. Langton awhile on indifferent subjects. Mr. Langton, lying on his couch, looking dull and weary, glances up with some interest. "Well?" he says, abruptly. "I saw your physician to-day," Vane observes, slightly embarrassed. "He thinks it would be at the risk of your health if you left this place under a month." "The rascal! He's keeping me here to swell his fee for attendance, that's all," groans the millionaire; "well, and what has that to do with your proposition, eh?" "A great deal. You know your delay in returning to America is attended with serious risk to Maud Langton, languishing in prison, and waiting for a release that cannot come until she regains possession of that note that is to prove her innocence." "I have urged Reine to return alone, but she is unwilling to leave me," Mr. Langton answers, hastily.