of the subject under discussion; yet she was a bud in her first season, so that it was impossible that there should not also be in her tone some faint consciousness of the delightfully romantic nature of the situation.
An angry flush came into the cheek of Miss Endicott. She was not a girl of striking face, although she had beautiful eyes; but there was a dignity in her carriage, an air of birth and breeding, which gave her distinction anywhere. She possessed, moreover, a sweet sincerity of character which made itself subtly felt in her every tone and movement. Now she knit her forehead in evident perplexity and resentment.
"But did they believe it?" she asked.
"Oh, they would believe anything of Miss Wentstile, of course," May replied. "We all know Aunt Sarah too well not to know that she is capable of the craziest thing that could be thought of."
She picked out a fat bonbon as she spoke, and nibbled it comfortably, as if thoroughly enjoying herself.
"But what can I do?" demanded Alice pathetically. "I can't stand up here and say: 'Ladies and gentlemen, I really have no idea of marrying that foreign thing Aunt Sarah wants to buy for me.'"
Whatever reply May might have made was interrupted by the arrival of a gentleman with an empty teacup. The new-comer was Richard Fairfield, a young man of not much money but of many friends, and of literary aspirations. As he crossed the drawing-room Mrs. Neligage carelessly held out to him her cup and saucer.
"As you are going that way, Richard," she said without preface of salutation, "do you mind taking my cup to the table?"
"Delighted, of course," he answered, extending his hand for it.
"If Mrs. Neligage will permit me," broke in Mr. Bradish, darting forward. "I beg ten thousand pardons for not perceiving – "
"But Mrs. Neligage will not permit you, Mr. Bradish," she responded brightly. "I have already commissioned Richard."
Fairfield received the cup, and bore it away, while Bradish cast upon the widow a glance of reproach and remonstrance.
"You women all pet a rising author," he said. "I suppose it's because you all hope to be put in his books."
"Oh, no. On the contrary it is because we hope to be left out."
"I don't see," he went on with little apparent relevancy, "why you need begrudge me the pleasure of doing you a small favor."
"I don't wish you to get too much into the habit of doing small favors," she responded over her shoulder, as she turned back to the group with which she had been chatting. "I am afraid that if you do, you'll fail when I ask a great one."
Fairfield made his way to the table where Alice was dispensing tea. He was by her welcomed cordially, by May with a reserve which was evidently absent-minded regret that he should break in upon her confidences with her cousin. He exchanged with Alice the ordinary greetings, and then made way for a fresh arrival who wished for tea. May responded rather indifferently to his remarks as he took a chair at the end of the sofa upon which she was seated, seeming so absorbed that in a moment he laughed at some irrelevant reply which she gave.
"You did not understand what I said," he remarked. "I didn't mean – "
"I beg your pardon," she interrupted, turning toward him. "I was thinking of something I was talking about with Alice, and I didn't mind what you did say."
"I am sorry that I interrupted."
"Oh, everybody interrupts at an afternoon tea," she responded, smiling. "That is what we are here for, I suppose. I was simply in a cloud – "
Fairfield returned her smile with interest.
"Is that an allusion?"
May flushed a little, and put her hand consciously to the carnation at her throat.
"Oh, no," she answered, with a little too much eagerness. "I can talk of something beside that book. Though of course," she added, "I do think it is a perfectly wonderful story. There is so much heart in it. Why, I have read it so much that I know parts of it almost word for word."
"Then you don't think it is cynical?"
"Oh, not the least in the world! How can anybody say that? I am ashamed of you, Mr. Fairfield."
"I didn't mean that I thought it cynical; but lots of folk do, you know."
May tossed her hands in a girlish gesture of disdain.
"I hate people that call everything cynical. It is a thing that they just say to sound wise. 'Love in a Cloud' is to me one of the truest books I ever read. Why, you take that scene where she tells him she cares for him just the same in spite of his disgrace. It brings the tears into my eyes every time I read it."
A new light came into the young man's face as she spoke in her impulsive, girlish fashion. He was a handsome fellow, with well-bred face. He stroked his silky mustache with an air not unsuggestive of complacency.
"It is delightful," said he, "to find somebody who really appreciates the book for what is best in it. Of course there are a great many people who say nice things about it, but they don't seem to go to the real heart of it as you do."
"Oh, the story has so much heart," she returned. Then she regarded him quizzically. "You speak almost as if you had written it yourself."
"Oh, I – That is – Why, you see," he answered, in evident confusion, "I suppose that my being an embryo literary man myself makes it natural for me to take the point of view of the author. Most readers of a novel, you know, care for nothing but the plot, and see nothing else."
"Oh, it is not the plot," May cried enthusiastically. "I like that, of course, but what I really care for is the feeling in the book."
Jack Neligage, with his eyes on Alice Endicott, had made his way over to the tea-table, and came up in time to hear this.
"The book, Miss Calthorpe?" he repeated. "Oh, you must be talking of that everlasting novel. I wish I had had the good luck to write it."
"Oh, I should adore you if you had, Mr. Neligage."
"By Jove, then I'll swear I did write it."
Fairfield regarded the girl with heightened color.
"You had better be careful, Miss Calthorpe," he commented. "The real author might hear you."
She started in pretty dismay, and covered with her hand the flower nestling under her chin.
"Oh, he is not here!" she cried.
"How do you know that?" demanded Jack laughingly.
She sank back into the corner of the sofa with a blush far deeper than could be called for by the situation.
"Oh, I just thought so," she said. "Who is there here that could have written it?"
"Why, Dick here is always scribbling," Neligage returned, with a chuckle. "Perhaps you have been telling him what you thought of his book."
The face of Fairfield grew suddenly sober.
"Come, Jack," he said, rising, "that's too stupid a joke to be worthy of you."
He was seized at that moment by Mrs. Harbinger, who presented him
