Adam Johnstone's Son. F. Marion Crawford

was silent still, pacing up and down before her. Suddenly, without a word, she turned from him and walked quickly away, towards the hotel. He started and stood still, looking after her—then he also made a step.

      “Fan!” he called, in a tone she could hear, but she went on. “Mrs. Crosby!” he called again.

      She stopped, turned, and waited. It was clear that Lady Fan was a nickname, Clare thought.

      “Well?” she asked.

      Clare clasped her hands together in her excitement, watching and listening, and holding her breath.

      “Don’t go like that!” exclaimed Brook, going forward and holding out one hand.

      “Do you want me?” asked the lady in white, very gently, almost tenderly. Clare did not understand how any woman could have so little pride, but she pitied the little lady from her heart.

      Brook went on till he came up with Lady Fan, who did not make a step to meet him. But just as he reached her she put out her hand to take his. Clare thought he was relenting, but she was mistaken. His voice came back to her clear and distinct, and it had a very gentle ring in it.

      “Fan, dear,” he said, “we have been very fond of each other in our careless way. But we have not loved each other. We may have thought that we did, for a moment, now and then. I shall always be fond of you, just in that way. I’ll do anything for you. But I won’t marry you, if you get a divorce. It would be utter folly. If I ever said I would, in so many words—well, I’m ashamed of it. You’ll forgive me some day. One says things—sometimes—that one means for a minute, and then, afterwards, one doesn’t mean them. But I mean what I am saying now.”

      He dropped her hand, and stood looking at her, and waiting for her to speak. Her face, as Clare saw it, from a distance now, looked whiter than ever. After an instant she turned from him with a quick movement, but not towards the hotel.

      She walked slowly towards the stone parapet of the platform. As she went, Clare again saw her raise her handkerchief and press it to her lips, but she did not bend her head. She went and leaned on her elbows on the parapet, and her hands pulled nervously at the handkerchief as she looked down at the calm sea far below. Brook followed her slowly, but just as he was near, she, hearing his footsteps, turned and leaned back against the low wall.

      “Give me a cigarette,” she said in a hard voice. “I’m nervous—and I’ve got to face those people in a moment.”

      Clare started again in sheer surprise. She had expected tears, fainting, angry words, a passionate appeal—anything rather than what she heard. Brook produced a silver case which gleamed in the moonlight. Lady Fan took a cigarette, and her companion took another. He struck a match and held it up for her in the still air. The little flame cast its red glare into their faces. The young girl had good eyes, and as she watched them she saw the man’s expression was grave and stern, a little sad, perhaps, but she fancied that there was the beginning of a scornful smile on the woman’s lips. She understood less clearly then than ever what manner of human beings these two strangers might be.

      For some moments they smoked in silence, the lady in white leaning back against the parapet, the man standing upright with one hand in his pocket, holding his cigarette in the other, and looking out to sea. Then Lady Fan stood up, too, and threw her cigarette over the wall.

      “It’s time to be going,” she said, suddenly. “They’ll be coming after us if we stay here.”

      But she did not move. Sideways she looked up into his face. Then she held out her hand.

      “Good-bye, Brook,” she said, quietly enough, as he took it.

      “Good-bye,” he murmured in a low voice, but distinctly.

      Their hands stayed together after they had spoken, and still she looked up to him in the moonlight. Suddenly he bent down and kissed her on the forehead—in an odd, hasty way.

      “I’m sorry, Fan, but it won’t do,” he said.

      “Again!” she answered. “Once more, please!” And she held up her face.

      He kissed her again, but less hastily, Clare thought, as she watched them. Then, without another word, they walked towards the hotel, side by side, close together, so that their hands almost touched. When they were not ten paces from the door, they stopped again and looked at each other.

      At that moment Clare saw her mother’s dark figure on the threshold. The pair must have heard her steps, for they separated a little and instantly went on, passing Mrs. Bowring quickly. Clare sat still in her place, waiting for her mother to come to her. She feared lest, if she moved, the two might come back for an instant, see her, and understand that they had been watched. Mrs. Bowring went forward a few steps.

      “Clare!” she called.

      “Yes,” answered the young girl softly. “Here I am.”

      “Oh—I could not see you at all,” said her mother. “Come down into the moonlight.”

      The young girl descended the steps, and the two began to walk up and down together on the platform.

      “Those were two of the people from the yacht that I met at the door,” said Mrs. Bowring. “The lady in white serge, and that good-looking young man.”

      “Yes,” Clare answered. “They were here some time. I don’t think they saw me.”

      She had meant to tell her mother something of what had happened, in the hope of being told that she had done right in not revealing her presence. But on second thoughts she resolved to say nothing about it. To have told the story would have seemed like betraying a confidence, even though they were strangers to her.

      “I could not help wondering about them this afternoon,” said Mrs. Bowring. “She ordered him about in a most extraordinary way, as though he had been her servant. I thought it in very bad taste, to say the least of it. Of course I don’t know anything about their relations, but it struck me that she wished to show him off, as her possession.”

      “Yes,” answered Clare, thoughtfully. “I thought so too.”

      “Very foolish of her! No man will stand that sort of thing long. That isn’t the way to treat a man in order to keep him.”

      “What is the best way?” asked the young girl idly, with a little laugh.

      “Don’t ask me!” answered Mrs. Bowring quickly, as they turned in their walk. “But I should think—” she added, a moment later, “I don’t know—but I should think—” she hesitated.

      “What?” inquired Clare, with some curiosity.

      “Well, I was going to say, I should think that a man would wish to feel that he is holding, not that he is held. But then people are so different! One can never tell. At all events, it is foolish to wish to show everybody that you own a man, so to say.”

      Mrs. Bowring seemed to be considering the question, but she evidently found nothing more to say about it, and they walked up and down in silence for a long time, each occupied with her own thoughts. Then all at once there was a sound of many voices speaking English, and trying to give orders in Italian, and the words “Good-bye, Brook!” sounded several times above the rest. Little by little, all grew still again.

      “They are gone at last,” said Mrs. Bowring, with a sigh of relief.