Margaret Elizabeth. "He merely said something about a sick boy he was
going to see at St. Mary's."

This again was very unlike Augustus, but Mrs. Pennington said no more.
Meanwhile the faintest shadow of a doubt was dawning in her niece's
mind; so shadowy she was scarcely aware of it, until, glowing from her
walk across the park, she entered the drawing-room that afternoon.

There is, by the way, a difference between walking in Sunset Park, the
abode of the elect, with a huge St. Bernard in leash, and taking the
same exercise at River Bend, unchaperoned save by a chance guard. Any
right-minded person must see this.

A young man, who sat talking to Mrs. Gerrard Pennington before the fire,
rose at her entrance.

"I am glad you have come, Margaret Elizabeth," her aunt exclaimed.
"I think you know Mr. McAllister? But we have rather a good joke on
you, for August says he was never in his life in River Bend Park."

"How do you do, Miss Bentley. Awfully glad to see you. That is, except
to motor through, don't you know, Mrs. Pennington."

Miss Bentley's brown eyes met Mr. McAllister's blue ones, and in the
period of one brief glance she experienced almost as many sensations,
and reviewed as much past history, as the proverbial drowning man.
The casual resemblance was striking. But the eyes--these were not the
friendly, merry eyes to which she had confided the fairy godmother
nonsense. Fancy so much as mentioning fairy godmothers in the presence
of these steely orbs.