The Thirtieth of June

Dinner that night had been rather a silent affair at Kent's, as well as at Madame Bernard's. Being absorbed in his own thoughts, Allison did not realise how unsociable he was, nor that the old man across the table from him perceived that they had reached the beginning of the end.

When Allison spoke, it was always of Isabel. Idealised in her lover's sight, she stood before him as the one "perfect woman, nobly planned," predestined, through countless ages, to be his mate. Colonel Kent merely agreed with him in monosyllables until Allison became conscious that his father did not wholly share his enthusiasm.

"I wish you knew her, Dad," he said, regretfully. "You'll love her when you do."

"I'm willing to," answered the Colonel, shortly. "I called on her this afternoon," he added, after a brief pause.

Allison's face illumined. "Was she there? Did you see her?"

"Yes."

"Isn't she the loveliest thing that was ever made?"

"I'm not prepared to go as far as that," smiled the Colonel, "but she is certainly a very pretty girl."

"She's beautiful," returned Allison, with deep conviction.

The Colonel forebore to remind him that love brings beauty with it, or that the beauty which endures comes from the soul within.

"Just think, Dad," Allison was saying, "how lovely she'll be at that end of the table, with me across from her and you at her right."

The Colonel shook his head, then cleared his throat. "Not always, lad," he said, kindly, "but perhaps, sometimes--as a guest."