The days that followed were full of joy to Alice.  Never had Thayor seen her in so merry a mood.  Le Boeuf’s broken arm had somehow changed Thayor’s attitude toward his guest—­so much so that the man’s personality no longer jarred on him.  He concluded that whatever suspicions he had had—­and they were never definite—­were groundless.  Alice was simply bored in New York and Sperry amused her.  That was the secret of his success with his women patients; she was bored here, and again Sperry amused her!  Why not, then, give her all the pleasure she wanted?  With this result fixed in his mind, his attitude to the “Exquisite” changed.  He even sought out ways in which his guest’s stay could be made happy.

“You must see the trout pond, doctor,” he would say.  “Ah! you don’t believe we’ve got one—­but we have; you must show it to the doctor, my dear”—­at which her eyes would seek her friend’s, only to be met with an answering look and the words: 

“Delighted, my dear Mrs. Thayor,” as he dropped a second lump of sugar in his cup.  Whereupon the two would disappear for the day, it being nearly dusk before they returned again to camp; Alice bounding into the living room radiant from her walk, her arms full of wild flowers.

There came a day, however, when Sperry, with one of his sudden resolves, preferred the daughter’s company to the wife’s.  What had influenced his decision he must have confided to Alice—­that is, his version of it—­for when he asked Margaret to come for a walk, and had received the girl’s answer, “I’m afraid we haven’t time for a walk before luncheon,” Alice had replied:  “Of course you have.  The walk will do you good.”

What really determined him to seek Margaret’s companionship was a desire to fathom her heart.  She was her father’s confidante, and as such might be dangerous, or useful.  To have refused him Margaret knew would only have made matters worse.  Much as she disliked him, she was grateful to him for having set the little Frenchman’s arm; so she ran into the house and returned in a moment, her fresh young face shaded by a brim of straw covered with moss roses.

“What a pretty hat!” exclaimed Sperry, as they crossed the compound to the trail leading down to the brook.  “Oh, you young New York girls know just what is and what is not becoming.”

“Do you think so?” returned Margaret vaguely, not knowing just what answer to make.  “It was my own idea.”

Sperry looked at the young girl, fresh and trim in her youth, and a memory rushed over him of his Paris days.  Margaret reminded him of Lucille, he thought to himself, all except the eyes—­Lucille’s eyes were black.

“Yes, it’s adorable,” he replied, drinking in the fresh beauty of the young girl.  “You are very pretty, my dear—­just like your mother.”  This line of attack had always succeeded in sounding the hearts of the young girls he had known.

The girl blushed—­the freedom of his tone troubled, and then half frightened her.  So much so that she walked on in silence, wishing she had not come.  Then again it was the first time she had been entirely alone with him, and the feeling was not altogether a pleasant one.  There was, too, a certain familiarity in his voice and manner which she would have resented in a younger man but which, somehow, she had to submit to.