"Yes, but," said Mr. Ogilvie, "how did she strike you? Do you think she
is as fascinating as some men think her?"

"I don't know what men think about her," said Macleod. "It never
occurred to me to ask whether a married woman was fascinating or not. I
thought she was a friendly woman--talkative, amusing, clever enough."

They lit their cigars in the cool shadow of the great elms: who does not
know how beautiful Kensington Gardens are in June? And yet Macleod did
not seem disposed to be garrulous about these new experiences of his; he
was absorbed, and mostly silent.

"That is an extraordinary fancy she has taken for Gertrude White," Mr.
Ogilvie remarked.

"Why extraordinary?" the other asked, with sudden interest.

"Oh, well, it is unusual, you know. But she is a nice girl enough, and
Mrs. Ross is fond of odd folks. You didn't speak to old White?--his head
is a sort of British Museum of antiquities; but he is of some use to
these people--he is such a swell about old armor, and china, and such
things. They say he wants to be sent out to dig for Dido's funeral pyre
at Carthage, and that he is only waiting to get the trinkets made at
Birmingham."

They walked on a bit in silence.

"I think you made a good impression on Mrs. Ross," said Ogilvie, coolly.
"You'll find her an uncommonly useful woman, if she takes a fancy to