"I want to know about your latest love affair," she laughed, softly.
"Just one line in your last letter meant more to me than all the rest
of it put together. As soon as I heard you were staying at Drake's I
began to expect it. So I was not surprised. You see, I saw her a year
ago. Jarvis introduced us one day. He put himself out to do it.
According to him, she was wonderful, a genius, and what not."

"You mean Dolly?" Mostyn's tongue felt thick and inactive.

"Yes, I mean _Dolly_." Mrs. Moore continued to laugh. "When I saw her
she was young enough to play with a doll, though I believe she was
reading some serious book. Well, she _is_ pretty--I can't dispute it--
and Jarvis declares she is more than that. To do her full justice, she
looked like a girl of strong character. I remember how the young thing
stared through her long lashes at me that day. Yes, I knew she would
turn your head. Dick, you are a man summer flirt. You are even more;
you enjoy the distinction of actually believing, temporarily, at
least, in every flirtation you indulge in. You have imagination, and
it plays you terrible pranks. You wouldn't have been home so soon--you
would even have been in your usual hot water over the girl--but for
your obligation to Irene Mitchell."

Mostyn tried to be resolute. He was conscious of his frailty of
purpose, of his lack of sincerity when he spoke.

"I am not obligated to Irene, and, what is more, Bess, I have
positively made up my mind to marry the little girl you are speaking
of."

The woman's eyes flickered, her lips became more rigid. It was as if a