"Oh," said she, half inclined to laugh, yet a little bit afraid too, "don’t ask me. It isn’t as serious as that—I mean, I didn’t think you would take it seriously. No doubt it’s all right, Vin, your choosing your own friends; and I have nothing to say against them; only I would rather you left me out, if you don’t mind. You see, I don’t know your intentions—" "Supposing I have none?" he demanded again. "Well, no one can say what may happen," the young widow persisted; "and I should not like to be appealed to—Now, now, Vin, don’t be so passionate!—have I said a single word against your new friends? Not one. I only confess that I’m a selfish and comfort-loving woman, and I don’t wish to be drawn into any family strife. There may be no family strife? Very well; so much the better. But my having no further acquaintance with Mr. Bethune and Miss Bethune—my having no knowledge of them whatever, for it practically comes to that—cannot injure them; and leaves me free from responsibility. Now don’t quarrel with me, Vin; for I will not allow it; I have been talking common sense to you—but I suppose that is what no man of twenty-five understands." He hauled up the gig to the stern of the house-boat, as an intimation that she could step on board when she chose. "There," said she, as she gave him her hand in parting, "I see I have offended you; but what I have said has been for your sake as well as mine." Well, he was vexed, disappointed, and a little inclined to be angry. But all that darkness fled from his spirit—he forgot all about Mrs. Ellison’s friendly monitions—he had no care for any speculations as to the future—when he was back again in the _White Rose_, sitting by Maisrie Bethune, he and she together looking abroad on the gay crowd, and the boats, and the trembling willows, and the slow-moving skies now growing warmer with the afternoon sun. Then, when the last of the races was over, came dinner; and as twilight stole over the river and the meadows, the illuminations began, the rows of coloured lanterns showing one after the other, like so many fire-flies in the dusk. Of course they were sitting outside now—on this placid summer night—in fairyland. CHAPTER VII. CLAIRE FONTAINE.