“I am surprised at you, Greta; I am surprised at Christian, more surprised at Christian.  The world seems upside down.”

Greta, a sunbeam entangled in her hair, regarded her with inscrutable, innocent eyes.

“When you were a girl, I think you would be sure to be in love,” she murmured drowsily.

Miss Naylor, flushing deeply, snipped off a particularly healthy bud.

“And so, because you are not married, I think—­”

The scissors hissed.

Greta nestled down again.  “I think it is wicked to cut off all the good buds,” she said, and shut her eyes.

Miss Naylor continued to peer across the rosebush; but her thin face, close to the glistening leaves, had become oddly soft, pink, and girlish.  At a deeper breath from Greta, the little lady put down her basket, and began to pace the lawn, followed dubiously by Scruff.  It was thus that Christian came on them.

Miss Naylor slipped her arm into the girl’s and though she made no sound, her lips kept opening and shutting, like the beak of a bird contemplating a worm.

Christian spoke first: 

“Miss Naylor, I want to tell you please—­”

“Oh, my dear!  I know; Greta has been in the confessional before you.”  She gave the girl’s arm a squeeze.  “Isn’t it a lovely day?  Did you ever see ‘Five Fingers’ look so beautiful?” And she pointed to the great peaks of the Funffingerspitze glittering in the sun like giant crystals.

“I like them better with clouds about them.”

“Well,” agreed Miss Naylor nervously, “they certainly are nicer with clouds about them.  They look almost hot and greasy, don’t they....  My dear!” she went on, giving Christian’s arm a dozen little squeezes, “we all of us—­that is, we all of us—­”

Christian turned her eyes away.

“My dear,” Miss Naylor tried again, “I am far—­that is, I mean, to all of us at some time or another—­and then you see—­well—­it is hard!”

Christian kissed the gloved hand resting on her arm.  Miss Naylor bobbed her head; a tear trickled off her nose.

“Do let us wind your skein of woof!” she said with resounding gaiety.

Some half-hour later Mrs. Decie called Christian to her room.

“My dear!” she said; “come here a minute; I have a message for you.”

Christian went with an odd, set look about her mouth.

Her aunt was sitting, back to the light, tapping a bowl of goldfish with the tip of a polished finger-nail; the room was very cool.  She held a letter out.  “Your uncle is not coming back tonight.”

Christian took the letter.  It was curtly worded, in a thin, toppling hand: 

“Dear con—­Can’t get back to-night.  Sending Dominique for things.  Tell
Christian to come over with him for night if possible.—­Yr. aff. brother,
     NICLS.  Treffry.”

“Dominique has a carriage here,” said Mrs. Decie.  “You will have nice time to catch the train.  Give my love to your uncle.  You must take Barbi with you, I insist on that.”  She rose from her chair and held Christian’s hand:  “My dear!  You look very tired—­very!  Almost ill.  I don’t like to see you look like that.  Come!” She thrust her pale lips forward, and kissed the girl’s paler cheek.