The roses referred to deepened to vivid crimson, the golden lights in the pansy-colored eyes sent a fiery gleam along the black-fringed lashes, as she answered, indignantly: "You forget yourself, and presume, sir." "I did, indeed, but you know my idle habit of jesting. Pardon me." "Willingly, so that the offense is not repeated," she answered, more gently, as she continued at her task, grouping the flowers into tasteful bouquets, and ending by a fragrant gift to each gentleman of a tiny posy for his button-hole, that restored sociability and brought back the ease that had marked the first of the interview. "And to-morrow, Bruce," said the captain, presently, "I shall see the last of you for years, if not forever. What possesses you to go wandering off to Europe in this mad fashion?" A smothered cry of astonishment caused him to look at Grace Grey. She was looking straight at Bruce Conway, the rose-bloom dying away from her cheeks, and the beautiful eyes, eager, questioning, startled, with a woman's love looking out of them, and a woman's love revealed, alas! too plainly, in that mute gaze. Conway's dark eyes met hers for a moment with answering love in their dark depths. Only a moment, though, and then they wavered and fell, and he indifferently answered her mute question: "You look surprised, _ma petite_. Well, it is true that I leave here to-morrow for an extended tour over Europe. I have long thought of it, and the time has come at last." No answer. She could not have spoken if life or death had hung on a single sentence from those sweet lips, from whence the rose-tint had faded, leaving them cold and white, and drawn as if in pain. She gathered up her fragrant burdens and carried them into the house, leaving a momentary shocked silence behind her. Presently the captain spoke, in the calm, assured tone in which we chide a dear and intimate friend: "Bruce, have you been flirting with that pretty, innocent child?" Conway fidgeted a little, but he answered nonchalantly enough: "Why do you ask? Have you fallen in love with her?" "I was not speaking of myself; we will keep to the subject, if you please. She _loves_ you." His voice grew tender, reverential. "Well?" That simple monosyllable might have expressed many things. In Bruce Conway's non-committal tone it meant nothing. "You will marry her?" "Why, no." The words came out with a jerk, as if they must be said, and the sooner the better. The purple twilight hid his face and expression, yet the captain persevered: "Yet you love her?" "Taking your assertion for granted," said Conway, coolly, "is that any reason why I should marry Miss Grey?" "It seems one to me."