Flora Saunt, the only daughter of an old soldier, had lost both her parents, her mother within a few months.  Mrs. Meldrum had known them, disapproved of them, considerably avoided them:  she had watched the girl, off and on, from her early childhood.  Flora, just twenty, was extraordinarily alone in the world—­so alone that she had no natural chaperon, no one to stay with but a mercenary stranger, Mrs. Hammond Synge, the sister-in-law of one of the young men I had just seen.  She had lots of friends, but none of them nice:  she kept picking up impossible people.  The Floyd-Taylors, with whom she had been at Boulogne, were simply horrid.  The Hammond Synges were perhaps not so vulgar, but they had no conscience in their dealings with her.

“She knows what I think of them,” said Mrs. Meldrum, “and indeed she knows what I think of most things.”

“She shares that privilege with most of your friends!” I replied laughing.

“No doubt; but possibly to some of my friends it makes a little difference.  That girl doesn’t care a button.  She knows best of all what I think of Flora Saunt.”

“And what may your opinion be?”

“Why, that she’s not worth troubling about—­an idiot too abysmal.”

“Doesn’t she care for that?”

“Just enough, as you saw, to hug me till I cry out.  She’s too pleased with herself for anything else to matter.”

“Surely, my dear friend,” I rejoined, “she has a good deal to be pleased with!”

“So every one tells her, and so you would have told her if I had given you the chance.  However, that doesn’t signify either, for her vanity is beyond all making or mending.  She believes in herself, and she’s welcome, after all, poor dear, having only herself to look to.  I’ve seldom met a young woman more completely free to be silly.  She has a clear course—­she’ll make a showy finish.”

“Well,” I replied, “as she probably will reduce many persons to the same degraded state, her partaking of it won’t stand out so much.”

“If you mean that the world’s full of twaddlers I quite agree with you!” cried Mrs. Meldrum, trumpeting her laugh half across the Channel.

I had after this to consider a little what she would call my mother’s son, but I didn’t let it prevent me from insisting on her making me acquainted with Flora Saunt; indeed I took the bull by the horns, urging that she had drawn the portrait of a nature which common charity now demanded of her to put into relation with a character really fine.  Such a frail creature was just an object of pity.  This contention on my part had at first of course been jocular; but strange to say it was quite the ground I found myself taking with regard to our young lady after I had begun to know her.  I couldn’t have said what I felt about her except that she was undefended; from the first of my sitting with her there after dinner, under the stars—­that was a week at Folkestone of balmy nights and muffled tides