“He appears to have lived in another world, mamma,” said Alice when he had left.  “He is an old dear.  I never knew so unworldly a person.”

Mrs. Yorke’s chin tilted a little.

“Now, Alice, don’t you be silly.  He lives in another world now, and certainly, of all the men I know, none appears less fitted to cope with this world.  The only real people to him appear to be those whom he has read of.  He never tried wealth.”

“He used to be rich—­very rich.  Don’t you remember what that lady told you?”

“I don’t believe it,” said Mrs. Yorke, sententiously.

Alice knew that this closed the argument.  When her mother in such cases said she did not believe a thing, it meant that the door of her mind was fast shut and no reason could get into it.

Mrs. Yorke could not but notice that some change had taken place in Alice of late.  In a way she had undoubtedly improved.  She was more serious, more thoughtful of Mrs. Yorke herself, less wilful.  Yet it was not without some misgiving that Mrs. Yorke noted the change.

She suddenly had her eyes opened.  Mrs. Nailor, one of her New York friends, performed this amiable office.  She assigned the possible cause, though not directly—­Mrs. Nailor rarely did things directly.  She was a small, purring lady, with a tilt of the head, and an insinuating voice of singular clearness, with a question-mark in it.  She was of a very good family, lived in a big house on Murray Hill, and had as large a circle of acquaintance as any one in New York.  She prided herself on knowing everybody worth knowing, and everything about everybody.  She was not lacking in amiability; she was, indeed, so amiable that she would slander almost any absent friend to please one who was present.  She had a little grudge against Keith, for she had been struck from the first by his bright eyes and good manners; but Keith had been so much engrossed by his interest in Alice Yorke that he had been remiss in paying Mrs. Nailor that attention which she felt her position required.  Mrs. Nailor now gave Mrs. Yorke a judicious hint.

“You have such a gift for knowing people?” she said to her, “and your daughter is so like you?” She showed her even teeth.

Mrs. Yorke was not quite sure what she meant, and she answered somewhat coldly that she was glad that Mrs. Nailor thought so.  Mrs. Nailor soon indicated her meaning.

“The young schoolmaster—­he is a schoolmaster in whom your daughter is interested, isn’t he?  Yes?  He appears so well-read?  He brought your daughter down the mountain the day her horse ran off with her?  So romantic to make an acquaintance that way—­I quite envy you?  There is so little real romance these days!  It is delightful to find it?” She sighed, and Mrs. Yorke thought of Daniel Nailor and his little bald head and round mouth.  “Yes, I quite envy you—­and your daughter.  Who is he?”

Mrs. Yorke said he was of a very old and distinguished family.  She gave him a pedigree that would have done honor to a Derby-winner.