“I am afraid you are still feeling weak,” she continued,
to the new-comer. “I feel better than I did on board the steamer, or in London,” said
Mademoiselle Brimont. She was an under-sized girl with plain features,
and did not shew off to advantage beside her travelling companion. “Did you suffer so much from sea-sickness? I can sympathise with you,
as I am a very bad sailor myself!”

“O! no! Madame, it was not the _mal de mer_. I can hardly tell you
what it was. Miss Brandt and I occupied a small cabin together, and
perhaps, it was because it was so small, but I did not feel as if I
could breathe there--such a terrible oppression as though some one
were sitting on my chest--and such a general feeling of emptiness. It
was the same in London, though Miss Brandt did all she could for me,
indeed she sat up with me all night, till I feared she would be ill
herself--but I feel better now! Last night I slept for the first time
since leaving Jamaica!”

“That is right! You will soon get well in this lovely air!”

They all sat down at the same table, and commenced to discuss their
rolls and coffee. Margaret Pullen, glancing up once, was struck by
the look with which Harriet Brandt was regarding her--it was so full
of yearning affection--almost of longing to approach her nearer, to
hear her speak, to touch her hand! It amused her to observe it! She
had heard of cases, in which young unsophisticated girls had taken
unaccountable affections for members of their own sex, and trusted
she was not going to form the subject for some such experience on
Miss Brandt’s part. The idea made her address her conversation more to
Mademoiselle Brimont, than to her companion of the evening before. “I suppose you and Miss Brandt were great friends in the Convent,” she
said. “O! no, Madame, we hardly ever saw each other whilst there, except in
chapel. There is so much difference in our ages, I am only seventeen,
and was in the lower school, whilst Miss Brandt did hardly any lessons
during the two last years she spent there. But I was very glad to have
her company across to England. My brother would have sent for me last
year, if he could have heard of a lady to travel with me!”

“Are you going on to join your brother soon?”

“He says he will fetch me, Madame, as soon as he can be spared from his
business. He is my only relation. My parents died, like Miss Brandt’s,
in the West Indies.”

“Well! you must be sure and get your looks back before he arrives!”
said Margaret, kindly. The head waiter now appeared with the letters from England, amongst
which was one for Miss Leyton in a firm, manly handwriting, with a
regimental crest in blue and gold upon the envelope. Her face did not
change in the least as she broke the seal, although it came from her
_fiancé_, Captain Ralph Pullen. Elinor Leyton’s was an exceptionally
cold face, and it matched her disposition. She had attractive
features;--a delicate nose, carved as if in ivory--brown eyes, a fair
rose-tinted complexion, and a small mouth with thin, firmly closed
lips. Her hair was bronze-coloured, and it was always dressed to
perfection. She had a good figure too, with small hands and feet--and
she was robed in excellent taste. She was pre-eminently a woman for
a man to be proud of as the mistress of his house, and the head of
his table. She might be trusted never to say or do an unladylike
thing--before all, she was cognisant of the obligations which devolved
upon her as the daughter of Lord Walthamstowe and a member of the
British aristocracy. But in disposition she was undoubtedly cold,
and her _fiancé_ had already begun to find it out. Their engagement
had come about neither of them quite knew how, but he liked the idea
of being connected with an aristocratic family, and she was proud of
having won a man, for whom many caps had been pulled in vain. He was
considered to be one of the handsomest men of his generation, and she
was what people called an unexceptional match for him. She was fond of
him in her way, but her way was a strange one. She called the attitude
she assumed towards him, a proper and ladylike reserve, but impartial
spectators, with stronger feelings, would have deemed it indifference. However, like the proverbial dog in the manger, whether she valued
her rights in Captain Pullen or not, Miss Leyton had no intention of
permitting them to be interfered with. She would have died sooner than
admit that he was necessary to her happiness,--at the same time she
considered it due to her dignity as a woman, never to give in to his
wishes, when they opposed her own, and often when they did not. She displayed no particular enthusiasm when they met, nor distress when
they parted--neither was she ever troubled by any qualms lest during
their frequent separations, he should meet some woman whom he might
perchance prefer to herself. They were engaged, and when the proper
time came they would marry--meanwhile their private affairs concerned
no one but themselves. In short, Elinor Leyton was not what is termed
“a man’s woman”--all her friends (if she had any) were of her own sex. Having perused her letter, she refolded and replaced it in its envelope
without a glance in the direction of Mrs. Pullen. Margaret thought she
had a right to be informed of her brother-in-law’s movements. She had
invited Miss Leyton to accompany her to Heyst at his request, and any
preparations which might be requisite before he joined them, would have
to be made by herself. “Is that from Ralph? What does he say?” she enquired in a low voice. “Nothing in particular!”

“But when may we expect him at Heyst?”

“Next week, he says, in time for the _Bataille des Fleurs_!”

“Are you not pleased?”

“Of course I am!” replied Elinor, but without a sparkle or blush. “O! if it were only my Arthur that were coming!” exclaimed Margaret,
fervently, “I should go mad with joy!”

“Then it is just as well perhaps that it is _not_ your Arthur!”
rejoined her companion, as she put the letter into her pocket. “Now, Bobby,” announced the strident tones of the Baroness Gobelli from
the other side of the balcony, “leave off picking the shrimps! You’ve
’ad more than enough! Ain’t bread and butter good enough for you? What’ll you want next?”

“But, Mamma,” pleaded the youth, “I’ve only had a few! I’ve been
shelling Papa’s all this time!”

“Put ’em down at once, I say!” reiterated the Baroness, “’ere William,
take Bobby’s plate away! He’s ’ad plenty for this morning!”

“But I haven’t begun yet. I’m hungry!” remonstrated Bobby. “Take ’is plate away!” roared the Baroness. “’Ang it all! Can’t you
’ear what I say?”

“Mein tear! mein tear!” ejaculated the Herr Baron in a subdued voice. “Leave me alone, Gustave! Do you suppose I can’t manage my own son? He
ain’t yours! ’E’d make ’imself ill if I didn’t look after him.