th her
big, childish eyes, but did not attempt to rise from the floor.

He walked toward her and held out his hand, and with ceremonious and
ironical politeness, he began:

"May I not help you--I could offer you a chair----"

She interrupted him while she struggled up, refusing his proffered hand.

"I've knocked myself against your nasty table--why do you have it in
that place!"

Michael sat down upon the edge of it, and went on in his ironical tone:

"Had I known I was to have the honor of this visit, I should certainly
have had it moved."

"There is no use being sarcastic," the girl said, almost crying now. "It
hurts very much, and--and--I want to go home."

Mr. Arranstoun pushed a comfortable monster seat toward her, and said
more sympathetically:

"I am very sorry--but where is home?"

The girl sank into the chair, and smoothed out her pink cotton frock;
the skimpy skirt (not as narrow as in these days, but still short and
spare!) showed a perfect pair of feet and ankles.

"She's American, of course, then," Michael said to himself, observing
these, "and quite pretty if that smudge of grime was off her face."

She was looking at him now with her large, innocent eyes, which
contained no shadow of _gene_ over the unusual situation, and then she
answered quite simply:

"I haven't a home, you know--I'm just staying at the Inn with Uncle
Mortimer and Aunt Jemima and--and--Mr. Greenbank--and we are tourists, I
suppose, and were looking at the pictures--when--when I had to run
away."

Michael felt a little piqued with curiosity; she was a diversion after
his perplexing, irritating meditations.

"It would be so interesting to hear why you ran away--the whole story?"
he suggested.

The girl turned her head and looked out of the window, showing a dear
little baby profile, and masses of light brown hair rolled up anyhow at
the back. She did not look older than seventeen at the outside, and was
peculiarly childish and slender for that.

"But I should have to tell you from the beginning, and it is so
long--and you are a stranger."

Michael drew another chair nearer to her, and sat down, while his manner
took on a note of grave, elderly concern, which rather belied the
twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Never mind that--I am sympathetic, and I am your host--and, by
Jove!--won't you have some tea! You look awfully tired and--dusty," and
he rang the bell, and then reseated himself. "See, to be quite orthodox