gentlemen, with their wives and daughters, a son or two more or less
dashing and sportsmanlike in style, the rector and his wife, Captain
Sedgewick and Miss Nowell. Gilbert had to take one of the portly matrons
in to dinner, and found himself placed at some distance from Miss Nowell
during the repast; but he was able to make up for this afterwards, when
he slipped out of the dining-room some time before the rest of the
gentlemen, and found Marian seated at the piano, playing a dreamy reverie
of Goria's, while the other ladies were gathered in a little knot,
discussing the last village scandal.

He went over to the piano and stood by her while she played, looking fondly
down at the graceful head, and the white hands gliding gently over the
keys. He did not disturb her by much talk: it was quite enough happiness
for him to stand there watching her as she played. Later, when a couple of
whist-tables had been established, and the brilliantly-lighted room had
grown hot, these two sat together at one of the open windows, looking out
at the moonlit lawn; one of them supremely happy, and yet with a kind of
undefined sense that this supreme happiness was a dangerous thing--a thing
that it would be wise to pluck out of his heart, and have done with.

"My holiday is very nearly over, Miss Nowell," Gilbert Fenton said by and
by. "I shall have to go back to London and the old commercial life, the
letter-writing and interview-giving, and all that kind of thing."

"Your sister said you were very fond of the counting-house, Mr. Fenton,"
she answered lightly. "I daresay, if you would only confess the truth,
you are heartily tired of the country, and will be delighted to resume
your business life."

"I should never be tired of Lidford."