"It will all be right," she said tearfully. "But it is dreadful for you, and for the young ladies, both of them." "Yes," he answered, "for both of them." "You know," she began eagerly, "that I am the----?" then she stopped. Stephen waited courteously for the end of the sentence that was never to be finished. He felt no curiosity at her sudden breaking off; it seemed to him that curiosity and interest, except on one subject, were over for him forever. When Lady Dacre repeated this story to her husband she finished by saying: "Why do you suppose it is, Temple, that my heart goes out to the married one?" "Natural perversity, my dear." "Then you think she _is_ married?" "Don't know; it is very probable." "Poor Archdale!" Sir Temple burst into a laugh. "Is he poor, Archdale, because you think he has made the best bargain?" "No, you heartless man, but because he does not see it. Besides, I cannot even tell if it is so. I believe I pity everybody." "That's a good way," responded her husband. "Then you will be sure to hit right somewhere." "I will remember that," returned Lady Dacre between vexation and laughing, "and lay it up against you, too. But, poor fellow, he is so in love with his pretty cousin, and she with him." "Poor cousin! Is she like a certain lady I know who chose to be married in a dowdy dress and a poke bonnet for fear of losing her husband altogether?" But Lady Dacre did not hear a word. She was listening to a mouse behind the wainscotting, and spying out a nail-hole which she was sure was big enough for it to come out of, and she insisted that her husband should ring and have the place stopped up. When the party reached Seascape the summer clouds that floated over the ocean were beginning to glow with the warmth of coming sunset. The sea lay so tranquil that the flash of the waves on the pebbly shore sounded like the rythmic accompaniment to the beautiful vision of earth and sky, and the boom of the water against the cliffs beyond came now and then, accentuating this like the beat of a heavy drum muffled or distant. The mansion at Seascape with its forty rooms, although new, was so substantial and stately that as they drove up the avenue Lady Dacre, accustomed to grandeur, ran her quick eye over its ample dimensions, its gambrel roof, its immense chimneys, its generous hall door, and turning to Archdale, without her condescension, she asked him how he had contrived to combine newness and dignity. "One sees it in nature sometimes," he answered. "Dignity and youth are a fascinating combination." In the hall stood a lady whom Archdale looked at with pride. He was fond of his mother without recognizing a certain likeness between them. She was dressed elegantly, although without ostentation, and she came towards her guests with an ease as delightful as their own. Stephen going to meet her, led her forward and introduced her. Lady Dacre looked at her scrutinizingly, and gave a little nod of satisfaction.