she didn't look
more than seventeen. I was glad when she bowed to Mrs. Ess Kay, because
she was pretty and I made up my mind that I should like to know her.

"That's Cora Pitchley's step-daughter, Carolyn," said Mrs. Ess Kay. "Do
you remember Margaret Taylour telling anecdotes of Cora? She doesn't
bother much with the girl. People are talking about them both rather a
lot this year, they say."

"Carolyn," I repeated. "What a pretty name, and how American-sounding,
somehow. Fancy her driving tandem, with only that tiny groom if
anything should happen. She must be plucky. How old is she?"

"Eighteen. She was one of last October's buds."

"October's buds," I repeated. "It sounds poetical--but unseasonable."

Potter answered with a laugh.

"Yes, we like things out of season in America, so we bring out most of
our buds in October. Then they have the whole winter to bloom in, you
know, before they're grafted on another stalk."

"Here comes Cora herself, now, in Tom Doremus's Electra," said Mrs. Ess
Kay. "It must make Mrs. Van der Windt wild, his going so much with the
Pitchley lot, as she can't stand them, and would keep Cora and Carolyn
out of everything in Newport if she could."

I didn't wonder at Mr. Doremus, though, as I bowed to him and found
time to know exactly how Mrs. Pitchley looked and what she wore, in the
half second before our two motors flashed apart. I thought her
splendidly handsome, and I liked the gleam in her dark grey eyes, which
promised fun. But just then our chauffeur slowed down before a house
which seemed to cover about a quarter of a mile of ground.

"Welcome to my little cottage, dear Betty," said Mrs. Ess Kay.

If this is her idea of a cottage, I don't know what her conception of a
castle must be! And yet, when you come to analyse it, there really is
something about the place which suggests a kind of glorified, Titanic
cottage, rather too grand for a king, unless he were a fairy king, but
possibly suited to an Emperor. But I do believe rich Americans think
that what is good enough for a king is only _just_ good enough for them
at a pinch;--and I've heard Mrs. Ess Kay call Windsor dreadfully
shabby.

Her "cottage" looks as it were built of grey satinwood, but it is
really shingles; and shingles can be the loveliest material imaginable,
it seems, for the covering of a house, especially with a foundation of
granite sparkling with mica. They are soft and shimmery in their tints,
these sh