plenty of traces on me. We neither of us ever mentioned Janet, _my_
Janet, that is to say. Janet's daughter (Janet II., as I used to
mentally designate her for convenience' sake) was here as I expected,
and for a while, just as before, I did not take to her. I left her alone
and she left me alone; that was her way.

She was lovely, certainly; ethereally lovely; almost too lovely for
one's senses to grasp the fact that she was but common flesh and blood
like all the rest of the world: a poem in human form if there ever was
one. Gossip had spoken truly for once; there were the three
distinguished lovers, and goodness knows how many more besides.

Paul and I never spoke of this girl, any more than we did of my Janet;
but, at first, I often fancied I saw his gaze fastened on her; the same
unpleasant sneer on his lips which disfigured them when he looked at
Duncan. By and by I grew rather to like her. I believe I, at heart,
resented Paul looking like that at my Janet's bairn. I began to fancy
that, for all her apparent calmness, she was shy. If we met in the
garden she would give me a swift glance to see if I were going to stop
and speak to her, and, I thought, seemed pleased when I did. At last
there came an odd little episode.

Paul was very fond of animals--that was always one of his good
traits--and he one day found a little stray white kitten somewhere about
the place, and brought it into the room where I sat alone at work. He
began grimly to play with it. Just then Janet opened the door. She gave
a delighted exclamation, and, coming eagerly forward, smilingly held out
her arms for the kitten. She was dressed for the evening, and the
little thing began clawing about her lovely gown, and in one instant had
pulled to shreds a very expensive bit of trimming.