Mr. Ogden De Forest was lazily strolling past the Masters’ front steps, where a knot of girls had gathered after a game of lawn tennis, and were imbibing largely of lemonade, which was being fabricated on the spot, according to demand, by Phebe and Janet Mudge.  The spoons stopped clinking in the various glasses as Bell thus audaciously called out to the gentleman.  He was not a Joppite by either birth or education; indeed, he had but lately arrived on his first visit as a summer guest, and was hardly known to anybody personally as yet, though there was not a girl in the place but was already perfectly well aware of his existence, and had placed him instantly as “one of the very swellest of the swells.”  He was a short, dark, well-dressed man, and so exceedingly handsome that every feminine heart secretly acknowledged that only to have the right to bow to him would be a joy and pride indescribable.  And here was Bell, who had accidentally been introduced to him the day before, calling to him as unceremoniously as if he were Dick Hardcastle or Jake Dexter.  He turned at her voice and paused at the gate, lifting his hat.  “I beg you pardon, Miss Masters, you called me?”

“Yes,” said Bell.  “Have some lemonade?”

“No, thanks.”

“Come in.”

“Thanks, not this morning.  I shall see you later at Mrs. Upjohn’s, I suppose.”

“Yes, you’ll see us all later,” said Miss Bell, fishing out a lemon-seed from her goblet.  “We shall have on different dresses, and you’ll be offering us lemonade instead of our offering it to you.  Take a good look at us so as to see how much prettier we are now than we shall be then.”

Mr. De Forest obeyed literally, staring tranquilly and critically at each in turn, his glance returning slowly to the young lady of the house.  “Unless you introduce me to your friends I shall not be able to tell them so,” he replied, in the slow, deliberate voice that seemed always to have a ring of suppressed sarcasm in it, no matter what he said.

“Then I’ll certainly not introduce you,” said Bell, composedly, with a saucy shot at him from her handsome black eyes.  “And so I’ll be the only girl to get the compliment.  Phebe, more sugar, please.”

“I will endeavor to work one up between now and then regardless of cost.  Four o’clock, I believe.  What is it to be?  A dance?”

“Holy Moses! at Mrs. Upjohn’s!”

“Oh, she doesn’t go in for that kind of thing?  A card-party, then?”

“Great heavens!  Mr. De Forest, are you mad?  I don’t doubt she struggles with herself over every visiting card that she uses,—­and playing-cards—!”

“Theatricals, then?”

Bell gave a positive howl.  “Theatricals!  Hear him, girls!”

“We hear well enough.  You don’t give us a chance to do any thing but listen,” said Amy Duckworth, pointedly.

“My dear, you’ll converse all the more brilliantly this afternoon for a brief period of silence now,” said Bell, sweetly.  “Mr. De Forest, you are not happy in your guesses.”