n this awful speech fails to cool Sir James's admiration for the
speaker. She has declared herself a non-admirer of the all-powerful
Horace, and this goes so far a way with him that he cannot bring
himself to find fault with her on any score.

"I don't know why I express my likes and dislikes to you so openly,"
she says, gravely, a little later on; "and I don't know, either, why I
distrust Horace. I have only a woman's reason. It is Shakespeare
slightly altered: 'I hate him so, because I hate him so.' And I hope,
with all my heart, Clarissa will never marry him."

Then she blushes again at her openness, and gives him her hand, and
bids him good-by, and presently he goes on his way once more to
Gowran.

On the balcony there stands Clarissa, the solemn Bill close beside
her. She is leaning on the parapet, with her pretty white hands
crossed and hanging loosely over it. As she sees him coming, with a
little touch of coquetry, common to most women, she draws her
broad-brimmed hat from her head, and, letting it fall upon the
balcony, lets the uncertain sunlight touch warmly her fair brown hair
and tender exquisite face.

Bill, sniffing, lifts himself, and, seeing Sir James, shakes his
shaggy sides, and, with his heavy head still drooping, and his most
hang-dog expression carefully put on, goes cautiously down the stone
steps to greet him.

Having been patted, and made much of, and having shown a scornful
disregard for all such friendly attentions, he trots behind Sir James
at the slow funeral pace he usually affects, until Clarissa is
reached.

"Better than my ordinary luck to find you here," says Sir James, who
is in high good humor. "Generally you are miles away when I get to
Gowran. And--forgive me--how exceedingly charming you are looking this
morning!"

Miss Peyton is clearly not above praise. She laughs,--a delicious
rippling little laugh,--and colors faintly.

"A compliment from you!" she says. "No wonder I blush. Am I really
lovely, Jim, or only commonly pretty? I should hate to be commonly
pretty." She lifts her brows disdainfully.

"You needn't hate yourself," says Scrope, calmly. "Lovely is the word
for you."

"I'm rather glad," says Miss Peyton, with a sigh of relief. "If only
for--Horace's sake!"

Sir James pitches his cigar over the balcony, and frowns. Always
Horace! Can she not forget him for even one moment?

"What brought you?" asks she, presently.

"What a gracious speech!"--with a rathe