“Stop with us for a fortnight!” mimicked Peter, scornful yet affectionate now.  “You get more British every day in your accent and conversation, my kid.”

“Well, I try hard enough!  I do like their way of speaking.  They make our voices sound grating and our expressions crude.”

“Our ways for mine!”

“You can have them.  Now run away, Petro.  I’ll see the ‘Young Moon’ later.  I need a nap.  Lay awake last night worrying!”

But when he had gone she lay awake planning.  This golliwog was undoubtedly dangerous.  The absorbed look in Peter’s eyes when he described her singular attractions contradicted the statement that his feelings were Platonic.

He “only wanted to help!” Pooh!  Still Ena was glad he had said that, because it had given her a brilliant idea.  It was also rather a cruel idea, but all is fair in love and war:  and this might be both.

Of course, if the girl were coming to New York to be a Salamander, the weapon would be useless.  Ena must find another.  She could not be sure until she had met Miss Child; but she told herself that no glorified golliwog, however sly, could fool her for five minutes!  She would soon know whether Peter were right or wrong about this daughter of a clergyman whose mother was dead.

Poor Petro, he was such a fool about people—­such a dear, nice, but sometimes inconvenient fool!  Just mother’s disposition over again, with a touch of father’s cleverness splashed in here and there where you’d least expect it—­but never in the place where it would be most useful.

As Ena reflected thus, she was vaguely pleased with herself after the fashion of an earnest student who suddenly finds himself actually thinking in French.  Before she Went to Mme. Yarde’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, she had been so accustomed to saying pa and ma that it had been very difficult to overcome the habit.  Even now, once in a while, she—­but, thank heaven, not once since meeting Lord Raygan; she was sure of that.  He had said, “You talk quite like our girls.”  And all the rest of the day she had been happy; for sometimes, in a good-natured sort of way, he made fun of what he absurdly called “the American accent.”

Ena shut her eyes and composed herself to lie down without ruffling her hair.  But she could not sleep.  She made pictures of Lord Raygan and his mother and Lady Eileen visiting at their house on Long Island.

Would they think it more “swell” of the Rollses to be living in the country than in New York?  She hoped so, and almost believed they would, for she understood from novels and what she had learned in London, that the “smart people” only “ran into town for the theatre and that sort of thing” in winter.  Now it was October—­almost winter.  And in the automobile it was only an hour and twenty-five minutes from Sea Gull Manor (Ena had named the new place herself) to New York.