"how absurdly wrong I was. And then, just now, somebody pointed out your
house to me. There was a girl standing in the doorway--a small, dark
girl, with--"

A peal like chimes cut him short. "Dear Jenny Thurston! Our
seamstress's little girl. She is spending the day with my mother, while
I've been spending most of the day with _her_ mother! Turn about! But I
wish you'd tell me," she said, "who it is that could have spoken of
me--to you. How interesting that we have a friend in common!"

"Not a friend," he said grimly, at the window. "Only a former--
acquaintance of yours--somebody that I imagine you have pretty well
forgotten. I'll tell you--another time. But I see it has stopped raining,
Miss--Miss--Miss Carstairs. Perhaps we had better take advantage of the
lull to start?--for I hope you are going to let me act for Mr. Hare, and
walk home wih you."

"Oh--would you! Then indeed we had!" she said rising at once. "I am
horribly late now: I know my mother is frantic. I don't mind your not
telling me that, really! But--it is odd that you should have spoken of
my age twice to-night. Shall I tell you something, Mr. Stanhope--to show
you why I have had to give up pigtails? This is my birthday: I am
nineteen to-day!"

She raised her eyes, shining, heavy-fringed, deep as the sea and bluer,
and looked at him. His own fell instantly. A shade of annoyance flitted
across his still face.

"It is a delightful surprise," he said, mechanically. "But you must not
call me Mr. Stanhope, please, Miss Carstairs."