A MISUNDERSTANDING

Miss Lois Huntington, as she sank back in the corner of her cousin’s carriage, on their way home, was far away from the rattling New York street.  Mrs. Wentworth’s occasional recurrence to the unfortunate incidents of stopping her ears and of singing the song without an accompaniment did not ruffle her.  She knew she had pleased one man—­the one she at that moment would rather have pleased than all the rest of New York.  Her heart was eased of a load that had made it heavy for many a day.  They were once more friends.  Mrs. Wentworth’s chiding sounded as if it were far away on some alien shore, while Lois floated serenely on a tide that appeared to begin away back in her childhood, and was bearing her gently, still gently, she knew not whither.  If she tried to look forward she was lost in a mist that hung like a soft haze over the horizon.  Might there be a haven yonder in that rosy distance?  Or were those still the billows of the wide and trackless sea?  She did not know or care.  She would drift and meantime think of him, the old friend who had turned the evening for her into a real delight.  Was he in love with Mrs. Lancaster? she wondered.  Every one said he was, and it would not be unnatural if he were.  It was on her account he had gone to Mrs. Wickersham’s.  She undoubtedly liked him.  Many men were after her.  If Mr. Keith was trying to marry her, as every one said, he must be in love with her.  He would never marry any one whom he did not love.  If he were in love with Mrs. Lancaster, would she marry him?  Her belief was that she would.

At the thought she for one moment had a pang of envy.

Her reverie was broken in on by Mrs. Wentworth.

“Why are you so pensive?  You have not said a word since we started.”

“Why, I do not know.  I was just thinking.  You know, such a dinner is quite an episode with me.”

“Did you have a pleasant time?  Was Mr. Keith agreeable?  I was glad to see you had him; for he is a very agreeable man when he chooses, but quite moody, and you never know what he is going to say.”

“I think that is one of his—­of his charms—­that you don’t know what he is going to say.  I get so tired of talking to people who say just what you know they are going to say—­just what some one else has just said and what some one else will say to-morrow.  It is like reading an advertisement.”

“Lois, you must not be so unconventional,” said Mrs. Wentworth.  “I must beg you not to repeat such a thing as your performance this evening.  I don’t like it.”

“Very well, Cousin Louise, I will not,” said the girl, a little stiffly.  “I shall recognize your wishes; but I must tell you that I do not agree with you.  I hate conventionality.  We all get machine-made.  I see not the least objection to what I did, except your wishes, of course, and neither did Mr. Keith.”

“Well, while you are with me, you must conform to my wishes.  Mr. Keith is not responsible for you.  Mr. Keith is like other men—­ready to flatter a young and unsophisticated girl.”