“Oh, yes!  I am staying there for a day or two.  Some friends of mine are there, charming people, and I heard that Hildegarde was here, and of course I flew to see her.  She is my oldest and dearest friend, Mrs. Merryweather.”

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Merryweather, with friendly interest.

“Yes, indeed.  We were at school together, and like twins, except for the difference in colouring.  Ah, les beaux jours d’enfance, Hilda, my love!  And you are quite, quite unchanged since the happy days at Madame Haut Ton’s.  ‘Queen Hildegarde’ we used to call her then, Miss Merryweather.  Yes, indeed! she was the proudest, the most exclusive girl on Murray Hill.  The little aristocratic turn of her head when she saw anything vulgar or common was quite too killing.  Turn your head, Hilda, my love!”

Hildegarde coloured hotly.  “Please don’t be absurd, Madge!” she said.

“Pray turn your head, Miss Grahame!” said Roger Merryweather, gravely.  “I am sure it would interest us.”

Hildegarde shot an imploring glance at him, and turned in desperation to her visitor.

“It is a long time since I have heard from you, Madge,” she said.  “I am sure you must have a great deal to tell me.  If Mrs. Merryweather will excuse us, suppose we go for a little walk together.”

“Surely, my dear!” exclaimed Mrs. Merryweather, with perhaps unnecessary cordiality.

But Madge had made herself very comfortable on the verandah, and had no intention of stirring just yet.  Go scrambling about over rocks, and tearing herself to pieces among bushes?  Hardly.  Besides, one glance had shown her that Professor Merryweather was uncommonly good-looking.  She settled herself gracefully in her chair, and gave a pretty little sigh.

“Dear child, I am a wretched walker, alas!  You know I never was strong, and this winter’s gaiety quite finished me.  I am ordered to rest, positively, this summer, under the severest penalties.  It was really a terrible winter in New York.  Every one said it was a wonder the girls were not killed, they went such a pace.  Do you never come over to Pollock’s Cove, Professor Merryweather? we had such a charming hop there last night; danced till two o’clock, with such music!  You must positively come over for the next one; we are to have them every week.”

Roger thanked her, but was not a dancing man, and hops were hardly in their line out here.

“Not a dancing man!  What a confession, Professor Merryweather!  But I am sure you really dance beautifully; doesn’t he, Hilda?”

“I don’t know!” said Hilda, laughing.  “He has never asked me to dance, Madge.”

“Ah! you are quizzing me.  I will never believe he could be so ungallant.  But Hilda, I hear that really you live in positive seclusion, like a nun without a convent.  My dear, how tragic, to pass your best years in this way!  I told mamma that I should positively implore you to come to me this winter, and she said it was my Duty.  To think of you, Hilda, forswearing the world!  It is too bizarre!  But we have not forgotten our little queen on Murray Hill; no, no, dear!”