Alone, a moment later, Tay was contemplating¹ a short excursion into the garden with the solace² of a cigarette, when he heard light rapid footsteps on the terrace flags. He turned eagerly. But it was Fanny who came running in. Her face was flushed with triumph, and her eyes sparkled under their heavy lids.

“I gave Granny the slip,” she exclaimed. “Let’s stay here and make Julia jealous.”

“But your grandmother will be unmerciful—”

“Oh, she never knows whether I’m round or not.”

“You make me feel that you lead a most unnatural³ life.”

“You may just better believe I do—dodging Granny, and watching cane⁴ grow. Oh, do make me feel like a girl in a book. You had just begun to tell me about that wonderful San Francisco when Granny had to come in. Tell me more. It will be something to dream of even if I never can see it.”

Tay resigned himself and sat down.

“Oh, you’ll see it, all right. You will visit us.”

“But suppose Julia won’t become an American and divorce that lunatic of hers.”

“But she shall, and you must help me. Will you?”

“If you will swear to take me away and find me a husband as perfectly⁵ fascinating as yourself.”

“Good lord!” Tay almost blushed. Then he looked at her suspiciously. Was the little devil as innocent as she pretended, or was this merely the instinct of the born coquette, crudely expressing itself? “Oh, you’ll meet a hundred far better worth your while than I am.”

“I don’t believe it,” announced Fanny, who had never removed her eyes from his face. (“What’s an aunt?” she was thinking, “especially when she’s old enough to be your mother?”) “And have they all got as much money?” she added aloud.

This certainly was ingenuousness⁶! “Oh, I’m a

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