Though he could not understand her, he made pretence of unconcern.  He regretted that she had not felt well last night—­that was all.

At the end of the cloister young Gellatly found one of Lady Murie’s guests, a girl named Violet Priest, with whom he had danced a good deal on the previous night, and at once attached himself to her, leaving Walter with the sweet-faced, slim-waisted object of his affections.

The moment they were alone in the long cloister he asked her quickly, “Tell me, Gabrielle, the real reason why you did not come last night.  I had looked forward very much to seeing you.  But I was disappointed —­sadly disappointed.”

“I am very sorry,” she laughed, with assumed nonchalance; “but I had to assist my father with some business papers.”

“Your mother told everyone that you do not care for dancing,” he said.

“That is untrue, Walter.  I love dancing.”

“I knew it was untrue, dearest,” he said, standing before her.  “But why does Lady Heyburn go out of her way to throw cold water upon you and all your works?”

“How should I know?” asked the girl, with a slight shrug.  “Perhaps it is because my father places more confidence in me than in her.”

“And his confidence is surely not misplaced,” he said.  “I tell you frankly that I don’t like Lady Heyburn.”

“She pretends to like you.”

“Pretends!” he echoed.  “Yes, it’s all pretence.  But,” he added, “do tell me the real reason of your absence last night, Gabrielle.  It has worried me.”

“Why worry, my dear Walter?  Is it really worth troubling over?  I’m only a girl, and, as such, am allowed vagaries of nerves—­and all that.  I simply didn’t want to come, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I hate the crowd we have staying in our house.  They are all mother’s friends; and mother’s friends are never mine, you know.”

He looked at her slim figure, so charming in its daintiness.  “What a dear little philosopher you’ve grown to be in a single year!” he declared.  “We shall have you quoting Friedrich Nietzsche next.”

“Well,” she laughed, “if you would like me to quote him I can do so.  I read Zarathustra secretly at school.  One of the girls got a copy from Germany.  Do you remember what Zarathustra says:  ’Verily, ye could wear no better masks, ye present-day men, than your own faces,’ Who could recognise you?”

“I hope that’s not meant to be personal,” he laughed, gazing at the girl’s beautiful countenance and great, luminous eyes.

“You may take it as you like,” she declared with a delightfully mischievous smile.  “I only quoted it to show you that I have read Nietzsche, and recollect his many truths.”

“You certainly do seem to have a gay house-party at Glencardine,” he remarked, changing the subject.  “I noticed Jimmy Flockart there as usual.”

“Yes.  He’s one of mother’s greatest friends.  She makes good use of him in every way.  Up in town they are inseparable, it seems.  They knew each other, I believe, when they were boy and girl.”