"Pardon me," said Sir Wynston, more easily, "you forget the view from
the window."

"Aye, the view, to be sure; there is a good view from it," said Marston,
with as much of his usual manner as he could resume so soon; and, at the
same time, carelessly opening the door again, he walked in, accompanied
by Sir Wynston, and both stood at the window together, looking out in
silence upon a prospect which neither of them saw.

"Yes, I do think it is a good view," said Marston; and as he turned
carelessly away, he darted a swift glance round the chamber. The door
opening toward the French lady's apartment was closed, but not actually
shut. This was enough; and as they left the room, Marston repeated his
invitation to his guest to accompany him; but in a tone which showed that
he scarcely followed the meaning of what he himself was saying.

He walked undecidedly toward his own room, then turned and went down
stairs. In the hall he met his pretty child.

"Ha! Rhoda," said he, "you have not been out today?"

"No, papa; but it is so very fine, I think I shall go now."

"Yes; go, and mademoiselle can accompany you. Do you hear, Rhoda,
mademoiselle goes with you, and you had better go at once."

A few minutes more, and Marston, from the parlor-window, beheld Rhoda and
the elegant French girl walking together towards the woodlands. He
watched them gloomily, himself unseen, until the crowding underwood
concealed their receding figures. Then, with a sigh, he turned, and