From behind the leaf, it appeared that Miss Blanche, on retiring, had been pursued by a hideous winged bug which defied the efforts of herself and maid to dislodge. Odin, the Spitz dog, had insisted upon scratching at the door. And it made her eyes red to sleep in the morning. And she had an early call to make. And the sea looked lovely. “I'm glad to find you here, whatever be the cause,” said Islington, with his old directness. “To-day, as you know, is my last day in Greyport, and it is much pleasanter to say good by under this blue sky than even beneath your father's wonderful frescos yonder. I want to remember you, too, as part of this pleasant prospect which belongs to us all, rather than recall you in anybody's particular setting.” “I know,” said Blanche, with equal directness, “that houses are one of the defects of our civilization; but I don't think I ever heard the idea as elegantly expressed before. Where do you go?” “I don't know yet. I have several plans. I may go to South America and become president of one of the republics,--I am not particular which. I am rich, but in that part of America which lies outside of Greyport it is necessary for every man to have some work. My friends think I should have some great aim in life, with a capital A. But I was born a vagabond, and a vagabond I shall probably die.” “I don't know anybody in South America,” said Blanche, languidly. “There were two girls here last season, but they didn't wear stays in the house, and their white frocks never were properly done up. If you go to South America, you must write to me.” “I will. Can you tell me the name of this flower which I found in your greenhouse. It looks much like a California blossom.” “Perhaps it is. Father bought it of a half-crazy old man who came here one day. Do you know him?” Islington laughed. “I am afraid not. But let me present this in a less business-like fashion.” “Thank you. Remind me to give you one in return before you go,--or will you choose yourself?” They had both risen as by a common instinct. “Good by.” The cool flower-like hand lay in his for an instant. “Will you oblige me by putting aside that leaf a moment before I go?” “But my eyes are red, and I look like a perfect fright.” Yet, after a long pause, the leaf fluttered down, and a pair of very beautiful but withal very clear and critical eyes met his. Islington was constrained to look away. When he turned again, she was gone. “Mister Hislington,--sir!” It was Chalker, the English groom, out of breath with running. “Seein' you alone, sir,--beg your pardon, sir,--but there's a person--” “A person! what the devil do you mean? Speak English--no, damn it, I mean don't,” said Islington, snappishly. “I sed a person, sir. Beg pardon--no offence--but not a gent, sir. In the lib'ry.”