, looking up from her
knitting in the softly-shaded light. "And what a romantic meeting with
Mr. Wayne! Is he all that the Danforths described?"

"Of course not," replied Mrs. Verdon. "They described one of the
impossible heroes of fiction. You know, they have a talent for
description."

"But isn't he nice?" Mrs. Tell asked.

"Yes, he is nice. There is something about him that is not commonplace."

She leaned back in her chair with a half-smile, absently toying with a
sprig of lemon-plant. Her slender figure looked graceful in a gown of
some soft kind of silk, flowered with faint blue and pink.

Looking at her, you somehow imbibed the notion that her hair, eyes,
complexion, and dress corresponded with her character. She was faintly
coloured. Nothing about her was intense.

A vague thought of this kind flitted through Mrs. Tell's brain at this
moment. She was not a clever woman, but long intercourse with the world
had quickened her faculty for observation, and she was much given to
studying Katherine.

"Not commonplace," she repeated; "then, of course, you found him very
interesting?"

"There was not time to get interested in him," Mrs. Verdon answered.

"Naturally if a man saves one's life one feels grateful. Perhaps my
gratitude has invested him with a fictitious charm."

She spoke with a little mocking air, twisting the sprig of lemon-plant
in her long white fingers, and looking down meditatively at the carpet.

"He will follow up his advantage," remarked Mrs. Tell, knitting
steadily. "No man ever had a more favourable introduction. I wonder if
he knew whose carriage it was when he stopped the horses? It was very
well done. Of course, a man who has travelled for years, and gone into
all sorts of risky places, is always ready for an emergency. He will
call soon."

"He will call soon," echoed the younger widow, still with the little
touch of mockery in her tone, "and I shall ask him to dinner. And then,
Olivia, you will sit there in your pet chair and watch us both over your
knitting-pins. When men come here, you always remind me of Madame
Defarge and the dreadful knitting-women of the French Revolution. You
have knitted all my admirers into that coverlet you are making. It's a
sort of secret record, I do believe."

She rose, with a slight laugh, suppressed a yawn in saying good-night,
and went out of the room with a soft rustle of trailing draperies,
leaving Mrs. Tell sitting in the "pet-chair."