And what had old George Bethune to say to this constant association and this fast friendship between the two young people? Well, old George Bethune had an admirable capacity for enjoying the present moment; and so long as the dinner was fairly cooked and the claret to his taste, so long as he had a small and faithful audience to listen to his rhapsodies about Scottish song and Scottish heroism, and so long as Maisrie’s violin was in tune and her hand as sensitive as ever on the trembling strings, he did not seem to pay much heed to the future. Perhaps it was but natural that one who had wandered so far and wide should welcome a little peace at last; and perhaps he intentionally blinded his eyes; at all events the young people were allowed the utmost freedom of companionship—it was as if these three formed but one family. One night, as Vincent was about to leave, the old gentleman said to him— "About to-morrow evening: I presume we dine at Mentavisti’s?" "Oh, yes, certainly: we’ve tried a good many places, and we can’t do better than Mentavisti’s," the young man answered—as if it mattered one brass farthing to him what sort of dinner there was, or where he got it, so long as Maisrie was at the same table! "Ah, very well. For this is how I am situated," said Mr. Bethune, gravely and grandly as befitted the seriousness of the theme. "I have an appointment in Jermyn-street at six o’clock. I may be detained. Now I can undertake to be at Mentavisti’s Restaurant at seven—and when the dinner-hour is once fixed, to play shilly-shally with it seems to me abominable—but I am not so sure that I shall have time to return home first. It will be better, therefore, and everyway safer, for Maisrie to come down by herself in a cab—" "But mayn’t I call for her?" the young man suggested at once. "You know she would much rather walk down than drive." "Oh, very well, very well, if you don’t mind," said Mr. Bethune, with a lofty condescension—or indifference; while Maisrie, instead of being in the least confused by this proposal, looked up with perfectly frank and pleased eyes, apparently giving him a little message of thanks. Nor was she in the least embarrassed on the following evening, when he was ushered upstairs by the landlady’s daughter. Maisrie was alone in the little parlour, ready-dressed except as regarded her gloves, and she was putting a final touch to the few flowers with which she had adorned the table. "Good evening," said she, quite placidly. "I will be with you in a moment, as soon as I have dried my fingers." She disappeared for a second, and returned. He hesitated before accompanying her to the door. "Won’t you give me one of those flowers?" said he, rather breathlessly. She seemed a little surprised. "Now that I think of it," she said, "I have never seen you wear a flower in your coat, as other gentlemen do. And I’m afraid there isn’t one here nearly fine enough—"