She started toward the town with a movement somewhat like that of a tall thin lily stalk swayed by zephyrs—­with a lilt, a cadence, an ever changing rhythm of joy:  plain walking on the solid earth was not for her.  At friendly houses along the way she peeped into open windows, calling to friends; she stooped over baby carriages on the sidewalk, noting but not measuring their mysteries; she bowed to the right and to the left at passing carriages; and people leaned far out to bow and smile at her.  Her passage through the town was somewhat like that of a butterfly crossing a field.

“Will he be there?” she asked.  “I did not tell him I was coming, but he heard me say I should be there at half-past ten o’clock.  It is his duty to notice my least remark.”

When she reached her destination, the old town library, she mounted the lowest step and glanced rather guiltily up and down the street.  Three ladies were going up and two men were going down:  no one was coming toward Marguerite.

“Now, why is he not here?  He shall be punished for this.”

She paced slowly backward and forward yet a little while.  Then she started resolutely in the direction of a street where most of the law offices were situated.  Turning a corner, she came full upon Judge, Morris.

“Ah, good morning, good morning,” he cried, putting his gold-headed cane under his arm and holding out both hands.  “Where did you sleep last night?  On rose leaves?”

“I was in grandmother’s bed when I left off,” said Marguerite, looking up at the rim of her hat.

“And where were you when you began again?”

“Still in grandmother’s bed.  I think I must have been there all the time.  I know all about your old Blackstone and all that kind of thing,” she continued, glancing at a yellow book under his arm and speaking with a threat as though he had adjudged her ignorant.

“Ah, then you will make a good lawyer’s wife.”

“I supposed I’d make a good wife of any kind.  Are you coming to my ball?”

“Well, you know I am too old to make engagements far ahead.  But I expect to be there.  If I am not, my ghost shall attend.”

“How shall I recognize it?  Does it dance?  I don’t want to mistake it for Barbee.”

“Barbee shall not come if I can keep him at home.”

“And why, please?”

“I am afraid he is falling in love with you.”

“But why shouldn’t he?”

“I don’t wish my nephew to be flirted.”

“But how do you know I’d flirt him?”

“Ah, I knew your mother when she was young and your grandmother when she was young:  you’re all alike.”

“We, are so glad we are,” said Marguerite, as she danced away from him under her parasol.

Farther down the street she met Professor Hardage.

“I know all about your old Odyssey—­your old Horace and all those things,” she said threateningly.  “I am not as ignorant as you think.”