“Then I’ll say no more,” said I, forcing a smile.

“Oh, say all you please, as long as you do not tell me what you think about her.  Tell me facts, not what your romantic heart surmises.  And if she were the queen of Sheba in disguise, or if she were a titled Saint James drab, no honest woman but who would see through and through her, and, ere she rose from her low reverence, would know her truly for exactly what she is.”

“Lord!” said I.  “Is that the way you read us, also?”

“No.  Women may read women.  But never one who lived has read truly any man, humble or high.  Say that to the next pretty baggage who vows she reads you like a book!  And in her secret heart she will know you say the truth—­ and know it, raging even while her smile remains unaltered.  For it is true, Euan; true concerning you men, also.  Not one among you all has ever really read us right.  The difference is this; we know we can not read you, but scorn to admit it; you honestly believe that you can read us, and often boast of doing it.  Which sex is the greater fool, judge you?  I have my own opinion,”

We both laughed; after a moment she put on her sun-mask and I tied it.

“Where do you and Mrs. Lansing lodge until your husband’s regiment returns?” I asked.

“They have given us the old Croghan house.  What it lacks in elegance of appointment it gains in hospitality.  If we had a dish of tea to brew for you gentlemen we would do it; but Indian willow makes a vile and bitter tea, and I had as lief go tealess, as I do and expect to continue until our husbands teach the Tory King his manners.”

She rose, giving me her pretty hand to aid her, shook out her dainty skirts, put up her quizzing glass, and inspected me, smilingly.

“Bring her when you think it time,” she said.  “Somehow I already believe that she may be something of what your fancy paints her.  And that would be a miracle.”

“Truly she is a miracle,” I said earnestly.

“Then remember not to say it to Angelina Lansing—­ and above all never hint as much to Lana Helmer.  Women are human; and pretty women perhaps a little less than human.  Leave them to me.  For if this romantic damsel be truly what you picture her, I’ll have to tell a pretty fib or two concerning her and you, I warrant you.  Leave that saucy baggage, Lanette, to me, Euan.  And you keep clear of her, too.  She’s murderous to men’s peace of mind—­ more fatal than ever since Clarissa played the fool.”

“I was assassinated by Lana long ago,” said I, smiling.  “I am proof.”

“Nevertheless, beware!” she whispered, as Boyd and Lana came sauntering up.  And there seemed to me to be now about them both a careless indifference, almost studied, and in noticeable contrast to their bright limation when they had left us half an hour ago.

“Such a professional heart-breaker as your Mr. Boyd is,” observed Lana coolly to us both.  “I never before encountered such assurance.  What he must be in queue and powder, silk and small-sword, I dare not surmise.  A pitying heaven has protected me so far, and,” she added, looking deliberately at Boyd, “I ought to be grateful, ought I not, sir?”