There was silence for a moment, then, turning shortly, and looking into the handsome face of the baroness, he said, without calling her by name, but earnestly, and it may be added a little peremptorily, “I wish to have a few moments’ conversation with you after dinner, if you will be good enough to consent.” “For what purpose? When? Alone?” “Your first question let me answer later. Here, under the palms, on the beach, anywhere, but alone, certainly.” Each question was superfluous, of course, but she was gaining time. At length she answered slowly, “I could wish you had not asked me for this meeting, Mr. Morning.” “But I am going away. Will you, knowing this, still refuse?” “I will come,” she said after a pause. “We will sit here upon the veranda, after eight. The others are going, I believe, to look at the dancers.” And, thanking her, he lifted his hat and withdrew. The halls were not ablaze on this night, for there is not light enough in the world to coax the sullen shadows from their lurking-places in a modern interior. But the arches of heaven, albeit moonless, were more obedient, and the electric scintillations searched and filled every rood of ground with their unwarm but willing light, or chased with exact pencil the willful outlines of orange and oleander, or the more tender ways of acanthus, pepper, and palm. Morning had wheeled a luxurious easy-chair alongside of his veranda “shaker,” and sat with his hands upon the upholstered back, waiting for the one woman in the world to him, while the promenaders, in full evening toilet, filed in pairs along the thronged corridors, and the soft strains of “La Paloma” floated down from the balcony and mingled with the plash of the sea. “Engaged,” spoke Morning curtly, as a youthful lord, accompanying the British delegation, attempted to move the fanteuil aside. “Beg pardon, I wish I were,” retorted the scion of a noble house, striding away with the fair one upon his arm. “There is hope for that fellow,” Morning muttered. “I left the baron to be taken to his room by his valet,” explained the baroness approaching. “He is a little tired and nervous,” and she loosened the lace about her throat impatiently. “Yes,” dryly, was the only comment. “He said he might get around here before he retired. I hope you would not mind, he is so very capricious, you don’t know.” “Oh, no, I don’t mind, but if he comes I am going, for I ‘don’t mind’ saying also I’ve had enough of that fellow!” The baroness looked up with surprise, but Morning went on excitedly:— “Oh, I know I ought not to say this to you, but I must say it, and a great deal more, unless you stop me! I say you are in deadly terror of that man, and you hate him beside, as you ought.” “How can you—who told you this? Surely you are assuming—” “No, pardon me, I am assuming nothing. I read your letters.” “Who gave you my letters?” asked the baroness in amazement.