Page:Cerise, a tale of the last century (IA cerisetaleoflast00whytrich).pdf/486

 ever become so hopelessly fouled and tangled as her model's, she must have capsized with the first breeze that filled her sails. His right hand had forgotten its cunning, and his very head seemed so utterly confused that, to use his own professional metaphor, "He didn't know truck from taffrail; the main-brace from the captain's quadrant."

What a lengthened interview was held by those two on the terrace! Again and again rising and dislocating his neck to look—there they were still! In the same place, in the same attitude, the same earnest conversation! What subject could there be but one to bear all this discussion from two young people like these? So much at least he had learned en mousquetaire, but it is difficult to look at such matters en mousquetaire, when they affect oneself. Ha! She is gone at last. And he, why does he stand there watching like an idiot? Sir George turned once more to the brigantine, and her dolphin-striker snapped short off between his fingers.

Again to the window. Florian not gone yet! And with reason, too, as it seems; for Lady Hamilton returns, and places a packet in his hand. He kisses hers as he bends over it, and hides the packet carefully away in his breast. Zounds! This is too much. But Sir George will command himself. Yes, he will command himself from respect to his own character, if for nothing else.

So with an affectation of carelessness, so marked as to be utterly transparent, the baronet walked down to the garden-*door, where he could not fail to meet his wife as she re-entered the house for a second time, leaving Florian without. It added little to his peace of mind that her manner was flurried, and traces of recent tears were on her face.

"Cerise," said he, and she looked up smiling; "I beg your pardon, Lady Hamilton, may I ask what was that packet you brought out even now, and delivered to Monsieur de St. Croix?"

She flashed at him a glance of indignant reproach, not, as he believed, to reprove his curiosity, but because he had checked himself in calling her by the name he loved.

"They are letters for Madame le Marquise, Sir George," she answered, coldly; and, without turning her head, walked haughtily past him into the house.