Alistair wondered that his mother did not perceive the indelicacy of such a course as she had proposed, and Caroline on her part wondered at the strange embarrassment with which Alistair at last gave his consent to her plans. It was not easy for these two to understand each other. During the few days that elapsed before their departure the Duchess did succeed in getting a glimpse at what was weighing on Alistair’s mind. She saw with secret concern that he really did doubt if he were worthy of such a girl as Hero, and that this doubt might even prove an obstacle to the fulfilment of her desires. It was necessary to encourage him, and give him confidence in himself, and the conscientious mother was surprised to find herself in the strange part of an apologist, extenuating instead of aggravating her son’s misdoing. Her first faltering attempts in this direction brought about a beautiful change in the whole intercourse between the pair. Caroline was deeply touched to see how the prodigal son’s nature softened and expanded under this rare indulgence. They began to be happy together; the poor woman secretly feared that she must be doing wrong. * * * * * When Alistair rose on the first morning in their new home, and stepped out of his bedroom window on to the little balcony that overlooked the Emerald Coast, he repeated to himself the two lines of Keats in which the essence of all poetry is distilled: “Magic casements opening on the foam Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn,” The house, which had been Hero’s choice for them, stood on the far edge of a little headland dividing a sandy bay from the broad haven of the Rance. The surrounding sea was ringed with a crescent of rocks and islets in the midst of which green Cézembre glowed-- “The captain jewel in the carcanet.” Something, that seemed the mast of a wrecked ship, rose up in melancholy memorial from one seaweed-covered ledge on which the waves were now foaming softly, like a child that tries to kiss away the recollection of its passion. On his right hand, across the shallow glistening tides of the estuary, the tall spire of St. Malo lifted itself like a more stately mast above the white walls of the islet city of the corsairs. Far to the west the grey cape of Freher watched the Atlantic billows, like a grim warder of the Breton coast. And over all the summer haze lay like a spell of strong imagination, and conjured up a legendary world.