that she was not so greatly displeased with Alice as her words
implied.

"Pay that driver for me and don't fail to tip him. Those Methuselahs at
the gate all but killed him. It was only the vigorous determination of
this gentleman, who very generously permitted me to share the only motor
at the station, that I got through the gates alive! I beg your pardon,
but what _is_ your name?"

"Mrs. Bashford," I interposed, "my friend, Mr. Searles."

"Mr. Searles!" cried Alice, dropping a cage containing some weird
Oriental bird which had been among my aunt's impedimenta. The bird
squawked hideously.

"Miss Violet Dewing, permit me to present the author of 'Lady
Larkspur'!"

Poor Torrence, clinging to a pillar for support, now revived
sufficiently to be included in the introductions.

It was a week later that Alice and I sat on the stone wall watching the
waves, at the point forever memorable as the scene of our first talk.

"Aunt Alice isn't playing fair," she said. "She pretends now that it was
all my idea--coming over to play at being your uncle's widow, but she
really encouraged me to do it so I could give her an impartial judgment
of your character. I'm her only niece and her namesake, and she relies
on me a good deal. You know she's very, very rich, and she had never any
idea of keeping your uncle's money. She meant all the while to give it
to you--provided she found you were nice. And she thinks you are very
nice."

"Your own opinion of me would be interesting," I suggested.

She had gathered a handful of pebbles and was flinging them fitfully at
a bit of driftwood. I wished her lips hadn't that little quiver that
preluded laughter and that her eyes were not the haven of all the dreams
in the world.

She landed a pebble on the target before replying.

"You are very nice, I think," she said with disconcerting detachment.
"At first I was afraid you didn't like nonsense, but you really got
through very well, considering the trouble I caused you. But I'm in
trouble myself now. Papa will land to-morrow. He's the grandest, dearest
man in all this world, but when he finds that I'm going to act in Mr.
Searles's play he will be terribly cut up. Of course it will not be for
long. Even if it's a big success, I'm to be released in three months.
Constance and Sir Cecil think I owe it to myself to appear in the piece;
they're good enough to say nobody else can do it so well--which is a
question. I'm going to give all the