, barely
that, I believe, and with us, girls of that age are immature; but Garda
Thorne isn't immature, she talks as maturely as I do."

"She does--in some ways," admitted Margaret.

"She talks remarkably _well_, if you mean that," responded Mrs.
Rutherford, who always felt called upon to differ from her niece. "And
she is certainly quite pretty."

"She is more than pretty; she is strikingly beautiful."

"Oh no, she isn't," replied Mrs. Rutherford, veering again; "you
exaggerate. It's only because you see her here in this dull little
place."

"I think it would be the same anywhere, Aunt Katrina."

"Well, we shall not have to compare, fortunately. She will stay here, of
course, where she belongs, she will probably marry that young Torres.
But that little ill-bred mother's designs upon Evert--that is too
amusing. Evert, indeed! Evert has more coolness and discrimination than
any man I have ever known."

The man of discrimination was at that moment strolling slowly through
the St. Luz quarter, on his way to the Benito; he reached it, and walked
out its silver floor. The tide was coming in. On that low coast there
were no rocks, the waves reached the shore in long, low, unbroken
swells, like quiet breathing; they had come evenly in from deep water
outside, and now flowed softly up the beach a little way and then back
again, with a rippling murmurous sound that was peace itself. Warm as
was the land, still dreaming of the sun, the ocean was warmer still;
the Gulf Stream flowed by not far from shore, and the air that came from
the water was soft on the cheek like a caress. From the many orange
groves of the town dense perfume was wafted towards him, he walked
through belts of it. At last, at the point's end, he found himself
bathed in it; he threw the light overcoat he had been carrying down upon
the sand, and stretched himself upon it, with his back against an old
boat; lying there, he could look down the harbor and out to sea.

He was thinking a little of the scene before him, but more of Garda--her
liking for the new-comer. For she had confessed it to him herself;
confessed, however, was hardly the term, she had no wish apparently to
conceal anything; she had simply told him, in so many words, that she
had never met or known any one so delightful as Lucian Spenser. This was
innocent enough, Garda was, in truth, very childlike. True, she was not
shy, she was very sure of herself; she talked to him and to everybody