Miss McDonald laughed, and then said, “You don’t understand the classes in English life.  Poetry is not in his line.  You see, dear, you couldn’t talk to him about politics.  He is a born legislator, and when he is in the House of Lords he will know right well who is in and who is out.  You mustn’t be unjust because he seems odd to you and of limited intelligence.  Just that sort of youth is liable to turn up some day in India or somewhere and do a mighty plucky thing, and become a hero.  I dare say he is a great sportsman.”

“Yes, he quite warmed up about shooting.  He told me about going for yak in the snow mountains south of Thibet.  Bloody cold it was.  Nasty beast, if you didn’t bring him down first shot.  No, I don’t doubt his courage nor his impudence.  He looks at me so, that I can’t help blushing.  I wish mamma wouldn’t ask him.”

“But, my dear, we must live in the world as it is.  You are not responsible for Lord Montague.”

“And I know he will come,” the girl persisted in her line of thought.

“When he called the day before we came away, he asked a lot of questions about Newport, about horses and polo and golf, and all that, and were the roads good.  And then, ‘Do you bike, Miss Mavick?’

“I pretended not to understand, and said I was still studying with my governess and I hadn’t got all the irregular verbs yet.  For once, he looked quite blank, and after a minute he said, ’That’s very good, you know!’ McDonald, I just hate him.  He makes me so uneasy.”

“But don’t you know, child,” said Miss McDonald, laughing, “that we are required to love our enemies?”

“So I would,” replied the girl, quickly, “if he were an enemy and would keep away.  Ah, me!  McDonald, I want to ask you something.  Do you suppose he would hang around a girl who was poor, such a sweet, pretty, dear creature as Alice Maitland, who is a hundred times nicer than I am?”

“He might,” said Miss McDonald, still quizzically.  “They say that like goes to like, and it is reported that the Duke of Tewkesbury is as good as ruined.”

“Do be serious, McDonald.”  The girl nestled up closer to her and took her hand.  “I want to ask you one question more.  Do you think—­no, don’t look at me, look away off at that sail do you-think that, if I had been poor, Mr. Burnett would have seen me only twice, just twice, all last season?”

Miss McDonald put her arm around Evelyn and clasped the little figure tight.  “You must not give way to fancies.  We cannot, as life is arranged, be perfectly happy, but we can be true to ourselves, and there is scarcely anything that resolution and patience cannot overcome.  I ought not to talk to you about this, Evelyn.  But I must say one thing:  I think I can read Philip Burnett.  Oh, he has plenty of self-esteem, but, unless I mistake him, nothing could so mortify him as to have it said that he was pursuing a girl for the sake of her fortune.”