al Grizel! Nothing whatever that's worth repeating. I often
wonder why I write to her at all, for her replies are nothing but a
paraphrase of my own letters. This one for example. She is sorry it
was wet for the picnic; she is glad you are enjoying your golf; how nice
it is that the garden is looking so well! She echoes all my sentiments
and thoughts, but"--Katrine's lips curved with laughter, "in her own
way! It's just the Grizel touch which transforms the whole. Little
wretch! she can make even a paraphrase charming."

Martin helped himself to another slice of crisp brown toast. His
sister's description of her friend's letter had not been enthralling,
nevertheless his eyes dwelt upon it with a persistence which was easily
understood. Martin wanted to read Grizel's effusion for himself.
Katrine was perfectly aware of the fact, but a latent obstinacy, for
which she would have found it difficult to account, prevented her from
granting his desire. There was nothing whatever in the letter which
could interest a grown man. She persistently looked the other way,
waiting in silence until he should speak again.

"Are you going to ask Grizel for the Barfield Garden Party?"

Katrine looked up sharply, her tell-tale face betraying the fact that
the suggestion was not to her taste.

"Grizel! To Barfield. I never thought of it. Why should I?"

"She would enjoy it. She hasn't been here for some time."

Katrine looked down, and drummed on the table impatiently. A moment
before she had been decidedly pale; now there was a suspicion of temper
in the quick reddening of her cheeks. Her lips were pressed together as
though to keep back impetuous words, but before the pause had time to
grow serious, she had put another question, with an air of elaborate
calm:

"Do you wish her to be invited?"

"Well!" Martin Beverley waved his hand carelessly, "it was a
suggestion. I thought you might be glad of her company, and Grizel can
always be trusted to turn herself out well. She would do you credit."

"Oh, _clothes_! I was not thinking of clothes," Katrine pushed back her
plate, and fidgeted impatiently with her cup and saucer.

"Of course it is your house. If you wish--"

A fragment of toast broke off sharply at a twist from Martin's fingers.
There was a moment of strained silence, then he said suavely:--

"Let us say then that I do _not_ wish! It's too hot to argue--and even
if the house is--ostensibly--mine, I