She put down her book on the sofa and got up, not without a little tremor at this unexpected encounter.

“Yes, I’m Cynthia Wetherell,” she replied.

To add to her embarrassment, Miss Duncan seized both her hands impulsively and gazed into her face.

“You’re really very beautiful,” she said.  “Do you know it?”

Cynthia’s only answer to this was a blush.  She wondered if all city girls were like Miss Duncan.

“I was determined to come up and speak to you the first chance I had,” Janet continued.  “I’ve been making up stories about you.”

“Stories!” exclaimed Cynthia, drawing away her hands.

“Romances,” said Miss Duncan—­“real romances.  Sometimes I think I’m going to be a novelist, because I’m always weaving stories about people that I see people who interest me, I mean.  And you look as if you might be the heroine of a wonderful romance.”

Cynthia’s breath was now quite taken away.

“Oh,” she said, “I—­had never thought that I looked like that.”

“But you do,” said Miss Duncan; “you’ve got all sorts of possibilities in your face—­you look as if you might have lived for ages.”

“As old as that?” exclaimed Cynthia, really startled.

“Perhaps I don’t express myself very well” said the other, hastily; “I wish you could see what I’ve written about you already.  I can do it so much better with pen and ink.  I’ve started quite a romance already.”

“What is it?” asked Cynthia, not without interest.

“Sit down on the sofa and I’ll tell you,” said Miss Duncan; “I’ve done it all from your face, too.  I’ve made you a very poor girl brought up by peasants, only you are really of a great family, although nobody knows it.  A rich duke sees you one day when he is hunting and falls in love with you, and you have to stand a lot of suffering and persecution because of it, and say nothing.  I believe you could do that,” added Janet, looking critically at Cynthia’s face.

“I suppose I could if I had to,” said Cynthia, “but I shouldn’t like it.”

“Oh, it would do you good,” said Janet; “it would ennoble your character.  Not that it needs it,” she added hastily.  “And I could write another story about that quaint old man who paid the musicians to go away, and who made us all laugh so much.”

Cynthia’s eye kindled.

“Mr. Bass isn’t a quaint old man,” she said; “he’s the greatest man in the state.”

Miss Duncan’s patronage had been of an unconscious kind.  She knew that she had offended, but did not quite realize how.

“I’m so sorry,” she cried, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.  You live with him, don’t you—­Coniston?”

“Yes,” replied Cynthia, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

“I’ve heard about Coniston.  It must be quite a romance in itself to live all the year round in such a beautiful place and to make your own clothes.  Yours become you very well,” said Miss Duncan, “although I don’t know why.  They’re not at all in style, and yet they give you quite an air of distinction.  I wish I could live in Coniston for a year, anyway, and write a book about you.  My brother and Bob Worthington went out there one night and serenaded you, didn’t they?”