Was that true which Valentine had said, that no man can eat beef and mutton every day of his life; that it is better to be unutterly miserable one day and uproariously happy the next, than to tread one level path of dull content?
Miss Paget began to think that there had been some reason in her old comrade's philosophy; for she found the level path very dreary.

She let her thoughts wander whither they would in this quiet holiday idleness, and they went back to the years which she had spent with her father.

She thought of winter evenings in London when Valentine had taken her the round of the theatres, and they had sat together in stifling upper boxes,--she pleased, he critical, and with so much to say to each other in the pauses of the performance.

How kind he had been to her; how good, how brotherly! And then the pleasant walk home, through crowded noisy thoroughfares, and anon by long lines of quiet streets, in which they used to look up at the lighted windows of houses where parties were being given, and sometimes stop to listen to the music and watch the figures of the dancers flitting across the blinds.

She thought of the journeys she had travelled with her father and Valentine by land and sea; the lonely moonlight watches on the decks of steamers; the long chill nights in railway-carriages under the feeble glimmer of an oil-lamp, and how she and Valentine had beguiled the tedious hours with wild purposeless talk while Captain Paget slept.