“Your cousin Mary is just as important as the licence, Harry,” said Geraldine primly. “She will come. You may rely on her being at Ostend with me on Thursday.” “Very well. In the meantime, I behave as if life were a blank. Brussels will put them off the scent. Mother and I will return from there on Thursday afternoon. That night there is a _soirée dansante_ at the Kursaal. Mother will say she is too tired to go to it, but she will have to go all the same. I will dance before all men till a quarter to ten--I will even dance with Mr. Thorold. What a pity I can’t dance before father, but he’s certain to be in the gambling-rooms then, winning money; he always is at that hour! At a quarter to ten I will slip out, and you’ll be here at this back door with a carriage. We drive to the quay and just catch the 11.5 steamer, and I meet your cousin Mary. On Friday morning we are married; and then, then we shall be in a position to talk to father. He’ll pretend to be furious, but he can’t say much, because he eloped himself. Didn’t you know?” “I didn’t,” said Harry, with a certain dryness. “Oh, yes! It’s in the family! But you needn’t look so starched, my English lord.” He took her hand. “You’re sure your uncle won’t disinherit you, or anything horrid of that kind?” “He can’t,” said Harry. “What a perfectly lovely country England is!” Geraldine exclaimed. “Fancy the poor old thing not being _able_ to disinherit you! Why, it’s just too delicious for words!” And for some reason or other he kissed her violently. Then an official entered the bureau and asked them if they wanted to go to Blankenburghe; because, if so, the tram was awaiting their distinguished pleasure. They looked at each other foolishly and sidled out, and the bureau ceased to be Cupid’s bower. III. By Simeon’s request, Cecil dined with the Rainshores that night at the Continental. After dinner they all sat out on the balcony and sustained themselves with coffee while watching the gay traffic of the Digue, the brilliant illumination of the Kursaal, and the distant lights on the invisible but murmuring sea. Geraldine was in one of her moods of philosophic pessimism, and would persist in dwelling on the uncertainty of riches and the vicissitudes of millionaires. She found a text in the famous Bowring case, of which the newspaper contained many interesting details. “I wonder if he’ll be caught?” she remarked. “I wonder,” said Cecil. “What do you think, father?” “I think you had better go to bed,” Simeon replied. The chit rose and kissed him duteously. “Good night,” she said. “Aren’t you glad the sea keeps so calm?” “Why?” “Can you ask? Mr. Vaux-Lowry crosses to-night, and he’s a dreadfully bad sailor. Come along, mother. Mr. Thorold, when mother and I return from Brussels, we shall expect to be taken for a cruise in the _Claribel_.”