to the Captain, who was a little behind the times in his way of looking
at these things.

He ordered in a bottle of claret for his guest, and Gilbert Fenton found
himself seated by the open bow-window looking out at the dusky lawn and
drinking his wine, as much at home as if he had been a visitor at the
Captain's for the last ten years. Marian Nowell sat on the other side of
the room, with the lamplight shining on her dark-brown hair, and with
that much-to-be-envied Skye terrier on her lap. Gilbert glanced across at
her every now and then while he was talking with her uncle; and by and by
she came over to the window and stood behind the Captain's chair, with
her clasped hands resting upon his shoulder.

Gilbert contrived to engage her in the conversation presently. He found
her quite able to discuss the airy topics which he started--the last new
volume of poems, the picture of the year, and so on. There was nothing
awkward or provincial in her manner; and if she did not say anything
particularly brilliant, there was good sense in all her remarks, and she
had a bright animated way of speaking that was very charming.

She had lived a life of peculiar seclusion, rarely going beyond the
village of Lidford, and had contrived to find perfect happiness in that
simple existence. The Captain told Mr. Fenton this in the course of their
talk.

"I have not been able to afford so much as a visit to London for my
darling," he said; "but I do not know that she is any the worse for her
ignorance of the great world. The grand point is that she should be
happy, and I thank God that she has been happy hitherto."