“I suppose that means,” he says—his voice betraying all the sore jealousy which he feels—“that Kenyon has been more fortunate than myself.” “It is not necessary,” says Sylvia, haughtily, “to introduce any other name into this— conversation. I am very sorry for the pain which I may be forced to give you; but you must believe that my answer would be the same under any circumstances.” “If he believes _that_,” I think, “he has less penetration than I give him credit for.” Mr. Lanier does not believe it. If the unpleasant fact of rejection is certain, what man is going to lose the satisfaction of believing that a prior infatuation for some other man is the cause of it? “Your preference for Mr. Kenyon has been so marked,” he says, stiffly, “that others besides myself have remarked it.” “That means Mrs. Cardigan, I suppose,” answers Sylvia, scornfully. “But may I beg to know why you thought it worth while to ask your question of a few minutes ago, if my preference for Mr. Kenyon seemed to you so ‘marked’?” “This is becoming stormy,” I think. “Really I must get away.” Then I succeed in skirting the bowlders unobserved, and take my way to the hotel through the falling dusk. I have not been seated on the piazza fifteen minutes when the others appear in sight—walking silently, as I observe with an inward laugh. They bear themselves very well, however, when they join the company, who greet them with inquiries about their late stay. “We were watching the new moon,” says Sylvia. “It is lovely.” “But it has the old moon in its arms, which I have been told is a sign of bad weather,” says Mr. Lanier. “How can you make such a disagreeable prophecy,” says Mrs. Cardigan, “when we all want the good weather to last until we are out of the mountains?” “You will be out of them to-morrow,” he says, “and on reflection I am inclined to accompany you. I think I have had enough of the beauties of Nature for one season.” “Indeed!” she says—and the interjection is full of significance. “In that case you will not feel inclined to go with us to Tallulah?” “No—only as far as Greenville,” he answers. Then he turns to Eric. “You are going to Flat Rock, are you not?” he asks. “May I trouble you to take my horse that far and return him to my uncle? One of your servants can ride him, can he not?” “Certainly,” Eric answers. “There is no difficulty about that, but I am sorry you mean to leave us.” “I am sorry to be obliged to do so,” the young man answers, with a commendable attempt at civility, “but I—ah—have business which calls me away.” After this there is nothing to be said, and consequently silence falls. Everybody knows what has happened as well as I know it. Aunt Markham grasps my arm with painful force, and, muttering something about “night-air” and “rheumatism,” leads me into the house and faces me solemnly.