Deity was said, upon closer analysis, to have proved to be a God of
Sentiment, and Miss Gleason was herself a hero-worshiper, or, more
strictly speaking, a heroine-worshiper. At present Dr. Breen was her
cult, and she was apt to lie in wait for her idol, to beam upon it with
her suggestive eyes, and evidently to expect it to say or do something
remarkable, but not to suffer anything like disillusion or disappointment
in any event. She would sometimes offer it suddenly a muddled depth of
sympathy in such phrases as, "Too bad!" or, "I don't see how you
keep-up?" and darkly insinuate that she appreciated all that Grace was
doing. She seemed to rejoice in keeping herself at a respectful distance,
to which she breathlessly retired, as she did now, after waylaying her at
the top of the stairs, and confidentially darting at her the words, "I'm
so glad you don't like scandal!"




III.

After dinner the ladies tried to get a nap, but such of them as
re-appeared on the piazza later agreed that it was perfectly useless.
They tested every corner for a breeze, but the wind had fallen dead, and
the vast sweep of sea seemed to smoulder under the sun. "This is what Mr.
Barlow calls having it cooler," said Mrs. Alger.

"There are some clouds that look like thunderheads in the west," said
Mrs. Frost, returning from an excursion to the part of the piazza
commanding that quarter.

"Oh, it won't rain to-day," Mrs. Alger decided.