"And that proves"--

"That I'm right," said the young lady decisively, "and that his
invitation was a mere form."

It was after sundown when they reached the picturesque and
well-appointed hotel that lifted itself above the little fishing-village
which fronted Kelpie Island. The hotel was in as strong contrast to the
narrow, curving street of dull, comfortless-looking stone cottages below
it, as were the smart tourists who had just landed from the steamer to
the hard-visaged, roughly clad villagers who watched them with a certain
mingling of critical independence and superior self-righteousness.
As the new arrivals walked down the main street, half beach, half
thoroughfare, their baggage following them in low trolleys drawn by
porters at their heels, like a decorous funeral, the joyless faces of
the lookers-on added to the resemblance. Beyond them, in the prolonged
northern twilight, the waters of the bay took on a peculiar pewtery
brightness, but with the usual mourning-edged border of Scotch seacoast
scenery. Low banks of cloud lay on the chill sea; the outlines of Kelpie
Island were hidden.

But the interior of the hotel, bright with the latest fastidiousness in
modern decoration and art-furniture, and gay with pictured canvases and
color, seemed to mock the sullen landscape, and the sterile crags amid
which the building was set. An attempt to make a pleasance in this
barren waste had resulted only in empty vases, bleak statuary, and
iron settees, as cold and slippery to the touch as the sides of their
steamer.