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"It is the most picturesque room I ever saw. And what a multitude of books!" exclaimed Isola.

"I didn't hear him say anything very much out of the common," said Mrs. Crowther, in her matter-of-fact way.

It was early summer, summer in her first youth, when she is frivolous and capricious, laughs and weeps she knows not why; smiling through her tears, and never knowing her own mind for a week together; to-day gracious-tempered and tropical; to-morrow east-windy and morose. In a word, it was June, a season of roses and rains, blue skies and thunder-clouds. It was June, and Martin Disney was looking out of the window with a keen eager face, much bronzed, and somewhat haggard, after a fatiguing campaign, looking out across the vales and woods of his native county, as the Penzance train sped along the high-level line betwixt Plymouth and Par. Those keen, grey eyes of his, accustomed to searching out far-off objects, looked as if they could pierce through the green heart of the Cornish valleys to the sheltered little[Pg 74] harbour of Fowey and the blue sea that opened wide to the far-off West.

"And how did the world use you, Isola?" he asked presently. "Was everybody kind?"

"But were you really fascinated, and were you really in love," exclaimed Disney, infinitely delighted at this little speech of his wife's, "in love with a battered campaigner—or did you just think you liked me a little bit, only because you wanted to get away from Dinan?"

[Pg 90]

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