vague and shy, they had nevertheless centered about some one who
should be tall, like Dick Livingstone, and alternately grave, which
was his professional manner, and gay, which was his manner when it
turned out to be only a cold, and he could take a few minutes to be
himself. Generally speaking, they centered about some one who
resembled Dick Livingstone, but who did not, as did Doctor
Livingstone, assume at times an air of frightful maturity and
pretend that in years gone by he had dandled her on his knee.

"Sometimes I think he positively avoids me," Clare wailed. "There's
the house, Elizabeth. Do you mind stopping a moment? He must be
in his office now. The light's burning."

"I wish you wouldn't, Clare. He'd hate it if he knew."

She moved on and Clare slowly followed her. The Rossiter girl's
flow of talk had suddenly stopped. She was thoughtful and
impulsively suspicious.

"Look here, Elizabeth, I believe you care for him yourself."

"I? What is the matter with you to-night, Clare?"

"I'm just thinking. Your voice was so queer."

They walked on in silence. The flow of Clare's confidences had
ceased, and her eyes were calculating and a trifle hard.

"There's a good bit of talk about him," she jerked out finally.
"I suppose you've heard it."