“Well, the yard ain’t much to brag of anyhow,” replied Miss Polly with that careful penetration which never sees below the surface of things.  “To tell the truth I’ve always had a sort of leanin’ toward geraniums myself—­especially rose geraniums.  I don’t know why on earth,” she concluded with animated wonder, “I never thought of putting rose geraniums in that window box along with the sweet alyssum.  They would have been the very things and they don’t take so much watering.”

“That’s a bargain, then,” said O’Hara, with his ringing laugh which made Gabriella smile in spite of herself.  Then, after shaking hands with each one of the group, he went down the walk and passed with his vigorous stride in the direction of Broadway.

When the gate had closed, and his large figure had vanished in the distance, Gabriella said sternly:  “Archibald, you must not lose your head over strangers.  We know nothing on earth about Mr. O’Hara except that he lives in this house.”

“Oh, but, mother, he was splendid at the fire!  You ought to have seen him holding a girl by one arm out of the window.  He was as brave as a fireman, everybody said so, didn’t they, Miss Polly?”

“Men of that sort always have courage,” observed Gabriella contemptuously, and despised herself for the remark.  What was the matter with her this afternoon?  Why did this man arouse in her the instinct of combativeness, the fever of opposition?  Was it all because she suspected him of a vulgar intrigue with a shopgirl?  And why had she decided so positively that Alice was vulgar?  Certainly, she, a dressmaker, should be the last to condemn shopgirls as vulgar.

“I declare, I can’t begin to make you out, Gabriella,” said Miss Polly uneasily.  “I never heard you talk about folks bein’ common before.  It don’t sound like you.”

“Well, he is common, you know,” protested Gabriella, with a strange, almost tearful violence.  “Why did he have to shake hands with us all—­with each one of us, even Fanny, when he went away?  We’d hardly spoken to him.”

“I don’t know what’s come over you,” observed the seamstress gloomily.  “I reckon I’m common, too, so I don’t notice it.  But I must say I like the way he spoke about geraniums.  He showed a real nice feelin’.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth before Gabriella had caught her in her arms.  “I know I’m horrid, dear Miss Polly,” she said penitently, “but I don’t like Mr. O’Hara.”

“Then I shouldn’t see any more of him than I was obliged to, honey, and there ain’t a bit of use in Archibald’s goin’ with him if you don’t want him to.”

“I don’t like to forbid him.  Of course, I know nothing against the man—­it is only a feeling.”

“Well, feelin’s are mighty queer things sometimes,” remarked Miss Polly, scoring a triumph which left the indignant Gabriella at her mercy; “and when I come to think of it; I don’t recollect that yours have always been such good judges of folks.”