intimacy, and Frances made a most lovable and harmonious third. A whole
fortnight I had studied her, criticised her, and was more bewildered
than ever--more sure of two things: The first was that it was next to
impossible that she had ever been anything different to what she was
now; the second, that she must be the woman I had seen on the pier.
What, under those circumstances, was any man to do?

No single incident had happened to interrupt the tranquil course of
life, but from day to day I grew more wretched with the weight of my
miserable secret.

One afternoon, I remember that the lilacs were all in bloom, and Lance
sat with his beautiful wife where a great group of trees stood. When I
reached them they were speaking of the sea.

"I always long for the sea in summertime," said Lance; "when the sun is
hot and the air full of dust, and no trees give shade, and the grass
seems burned, I long for the sea. Love of water seems almost mania with
me, from the deep blue ocean, with its foaming billows, to the smallest
pool hidden in a wood. It is strange, Frances, with your beauty-loving
soul, that you dislike the sea."

She had gathered a spray of the beautiful lilac and held it to her lips.
Was it the shade of the flower, or did the color leave her face? If so,
it was the first time I had seen it change.

"Do you really dislike the sea, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.

"Yes," she replied, laconically.