At the other end of the cloth were Mr. Cooke and the Four, in wonderful spirits and unimpaired appetite, and in their midst sat the Celebrity, likewise in wonderful spirits.  His behavior now and again elicited a loud grunt of disapproval from Mr. Trevor, who was plying his knife and fork in a manner emblematic of his state of mind.  Mr. Allen was laughing and joking airily with Mr. Cooke and the guests, denying, but not resenting, their accusations with all the sang froid of a hardened criminal.  He did not care particularly to go to Canada, he said.  Why should he, when he was innocent?  But, if Mr. Cooke insisted, he would enjoy seeing that part of the lake and the Canadian side.

Afterwards I perceived Miss Thorn down by the brookside, washing dishes.  Her sleeves were drawn back to the elbow, and a dainty white apron covered her blue skirt, while the wind from the lake had disentangled errant wisps of her hair.  I stood on the brink above, secure, as I thought, from observation, when she chanced to look up and spied me.

“Mr. Crocker,” she called, “would you like to make yourself useful?”

I was decidedly embarrassed.  Her manner was as frank and unconstrained as though I had not been shunning her for weeks past.

“If such a thing is possible,” I replied.

“Do you know a dish-cloth when you see one?”

I was doubtful.  But I procured the cloth from Miss Trevor and returned.  There was an air about Miss Thorn that was new to me.

“What an uncompromising man you are, Mr. Crocker,” she said to me.  “Once a person is unfortunate enough to come under the ban of your disapproval you have nothing whatever to do with them.  Now it seems that I have given you offence in some way.  Is it not so?”

“You magnify my importance,” I said.

“No temporizing, Mr. Crocker,” she went on, as though she meant to be obeyed; “sit down there, and let’s have it out.  I like you too well to quarrel with you.”

There was no resisting such a command, and I threw myself on the pebbles at her feet.

“I thought we were going to be great friends,” she said.  “You and Mr. Farrar were so kind to me on the night of my arrival, and we had such fun watching the dance together.”

“I confess I thought so, too.  But you expressed opinions then that I shared.  You have since changed your mind, for some unaccountable reason.”

She paused in her polishing, a shining dish in her hand, and looked down at me with something between a laugh and a frown.

“I suppose you have never regretted speaking hastily,” she said.

“Many a time,” I returned, warming; “but if I ever thought a judgment measured and distilled, it was your judgment of the Celebrity.”

“Does the study of law eliminate humanity?” she asked, with a mock curtsey.  “The deliberate sentences are sometimes the unjust ones, and men who are hung by weighed wisdom are often the innocent.”