class="narrative">“It might. Chance might have much to answer for,” she went on rapidly. “While it keeps you near us, do be good to my unlucky Tom! I thought he and Anne would have amused each other, but they do not. I hope,”—she reached the point to which he had divined she was tending, and adopted a careless air—“I hope that Tom did not try to run down Anne? He has a deceptive way of saying more than he means, and saying it in his melancholy way produces a stronger effect than if it came from an ordinary person; as I always tell him, I don’t think he is in the least aware of the impression he makes. Anne is the dearest girl in the world!”

Wareham felt as if fate were determined to force his opinion about Miss Dalrymple; he answered cautiously—

“I understood from Colonel Martyn that you were friends.”

She looked at him.

“I don’t believe that either he or you stopped there!”

He gathered that her husband had confided the unfortunate remark which had caused his flight, and thought it hard that she should come to him, instead of applying to her friend, for particulars. He was resolved not to be drawn a second time, experience having already proved sufficiently embarrassing.

“I am not aware of having gone beyond it,” he said indifferently. “How should I? Until five minutes ago I had scarcely exchanged twenty words with Miss Dalrymple.”

She persisted.

“But of course you had heard of her? Every one who is anything is heard about now-a-days.”

He agreed to the general remark, and she tapped her foot impatiently.

“How cautious you are! Now, I always speak my mind, even if it offends people. Life would be unendurable if one had to weigh one’s words like so many groceries.”

It is difficult to answer the people who present you with themselves as an example. Wareham laughed, and assured her that she had only to choose an impersonal topic.

“A hint for a hit. Well, I don’t think you’re acting fairly towards Anne, because you won’t say what has prejudiced you against her.”

So far Wareham had kept his temper, but at this point annoyance made a sudden leap to the front, and with the smile still on his lips, he felt savage. It seemed to him that they wouldn’t leave him alone, that they wanted to force his hand, and oblige him to say something that was either offensive or false.

“If you mean that I object to discussing Miss Dalrymple with her friends,” he said coldly, “you are right.”

“Ah, you would prefer doing it with her enemies,” she returned with a shrewdness perhaps unexpected.

“I should prefer changing the subject altogether,” said Wareham. “Do you know that we are nearly at the end of our voyage? Behind those grey elephantine rocks lies Naes, and there it is ordained that we dine.”

“Dine! At two! Poor Tom! But how good for his health!”

Wareham did not feel himself called upon to express an opinion on this point. He went back to Mrs Ravenhill and Millie, landed, and walked with them up to the little inn, from which a red flag was gaily flying.

It is between Naes and Haare that the Bratlandsdal lies, one of the most beautiful secrets of Norway. Secret, indeed, only by comparison, since the road has been carved out, but as yet not so freely tourist-ridden as other parts. A hard-worked clergyman and his wife, flinging the energy of work into their holiday, at once set off on the long tramp; the other travellers, more respectful to comfort, waited to engage stolkjaerres and carrioles, and to go through the routine of salmon and stringiest mutton; so that it was three o’clock before the Ravenhills, Wareham, and young Grey—wrenched from remote homage of Miss Dalrymple—set off leisurely to walk to the head of the gorge, stolkjaerres and luggage at their heels.

Grey was an enthusiastic fisherman, and his talk of flies, many of which festooned his hat. His companions were careless as to their merits, but Millie had a charm of simple sympathy, which all along Wareham had recognised and liked, and she let him expatiate upon them without giving a hint that she was bored. Almost at once they were in the shadow of the great gorge, the road mounted; down, far down, cleaving its way between thousand-feet rocks, dashed a wild river, beryl-coloured when not churned into whiteness, leaping, laughing, flying from rock to rock, curving into green pools, flinging foam at the growing things which bent to kiss it, an impetuous, untamable, living force. To think of it in storm with a hundred angry voices crying out, and mountain-echoes hurling back their rage, was to shudder. But now, under a brilliant sun, there was a lovely splendour abroad; feathery beds of moss and fern hid away the menacing crevices of the grey rocks; streams tinkled, drop by drop, from the overhanging heights; shadows were soft, tender, and wavering, radiant sunlight changed harshness into beauty.

“And we have it to ourselves!” sighed Mrs Ravenhill thankfully. “The others are ahead, and are welcome to the better rooms. But what of the Martyns?”

Young Grey was eager in his knowledge.

“They were tired, and waited another hour. I promised to arrange about their rooms. It was Miss Dalrymple who said she was tired.”

He spoke with an unmistakable touch of reverence.

Mrs Ravenhill thought it a pity they should risk losing the lights.

“The days are long enough,” Millie put in. “And how delightful to have this delicious place to ourselves! Let us enjoy it.”

“Let us,” said Wareham. “How do you begin?”

“Oh!” cried the girl indignantly, “there is no beginning. You must do it.”

“Ah, that is feminine impracticability. You issue a command, and we are anxious to obey, but every act has a beginning and an end.”

She broke into a smile.

“Well, then, put away the wish to be anywhere else.”

“Done,” said Wareham, after a moments consideration. “But don’t you see Mr Grey eyeing the river?”

The young fellow excused himself. He was only wondering how a particular fly which the landlord had bestowed upon him would work in the pools.

“Precisely,” said Wareham, smiling at Millie. “In our advanced civilisation, enjoyment has ceased to be spontaneous, and has become an art. It can’t be treated so unceremoniously as you suggest. Stalk it as you would a deer, and, even then, ten to one your prey escapes you.”

She cried out—

“I should think so! You had better pretend that an epicure who has made up his mind what to have for dinner is the only person who knows what enjoyment is!”

“I suppose so—yes, I dare say you have hit on the best definition,” returned Wareham reflectively. “What is very certain is that he should not come to Norway.”

“I think you are hateful! Do you mean to tell me you are never pleased?”

“Oh, pleased!—yes, certainly. Enjoyment is something more important—more all round.”

“Well, that is what we feel now.” She swept in her mother with a comprehensive look. “We like the beauty, the air, the solitude—and our companions,” she added, with a smile. “Isn’t that all-round enjoyment?”

“I really believe it is,”