“Firstly,” began Maurice, seating himself on the rustic bench near her, “why isn’t Miss Lafitte a belle?—­she is certainly beautiful.”

“’Pretty is as pretty does’—­a motto especially true of belles.”

“Which, interpreted, means she is not agreeable.  Yet she has mind, or she would not keep that thoughtful position for so long a time.”

“She may be planning the trimming for her next ball-dress,” remarked his cousin.

“She is too serious for that.”

“It is a serious affair at times.”

“There is something about her extremely interesting to me.”

“Maurice, of course you will think me odious”—­and Mrs. Felton checked her bantering tone—­“but don’t sit here allowing your imagination to run wild, deifying Miss Lafitte before you know her.  Either make her acquaintance in the ordinary way, or, which I should like better, avoid her.”

“Do you think I am falling in love at first sight?”

“I think any idle young man tempts Providence when he sits weaving romances about a very beautiful girl before he knows her.”

“Then introduce us.”

“She won’t speak to me.”

“What have you quarreled about?”

“Nothing.”

“Very mysterious.  Clare, listen!  If you don’t tell me the whole secret, I will fall in love with her for spite, and make a terrible fool of myself.”

“An easy task.”

“Shoot it off, Clare:  I know you are dying to tell me.”

“I would rather you heard it from some one else:  I would indeed.  Still, if you insist—­”

“I command, I entreat.”

“Incorrigible!  For your own good I—­”

“My peace of mind depends on it.”

“I wish you were not so obstinate.”  Then, lowering her voice, “The report is that the poor girl is insane.”

“What a horrible slander!” exclaimed the young man, springing to his feet.

“Yes,” remarked the widow, “if it is not true.”

“It is heartless.”  Then looking at her sharply, “There is no foundation for it, is there?”

“She has strange fancies, takes aversions to people—­I can’t say.  Let us continue our walk.  I have told you I am not acquainted with her.”

“We will walk that way:  I want to see her closer.”

Not satisfied with merely passing, Dr. Maurice Grey—­to give him his full title—­crossed the path when near the solitary figure, so as to have a full view of her face.  At that moment Miss Lafitte raised her eyes, and their expression when they rested on Mrs. Felton was hard to interpret.  It seemed a mixture of repulsion and dread.  She drew back as they went by, and involuntarily shuddered.

“What do you think of that?” asked the widow as soon as they were at a safe distance.

“Unquestionably she is a good hater,” answered Maurice.