“Ah! Robert, you have entirely too much sentiment, my boy. Do not waste yourself. I will cite you a girl--there’s Frances Baxter. True, she is not good looking, in fact, I presume quite a few consider her extraordinarily plain. But that excessive income is worth your while to aspire to--such a name as Milburn is certainly worth something.” With an earnestness of tone and manner which the gossipy nature of the talk hardly seemed to call for, Robert nervously threw aside his crumpled napkin and looked sharply at his companion, saying: “Surely, then, I may do something better with it than sell it.” “There, we will not argue, I am too wise to oppose a man who is laboring under the temporary insanity of a love affair. I had feared that you were not so level-headed as is your wont. Come, who is the woman? Is it the Southern girl at the Stanhope’s?” “Of whom do you speak?” asked Robert, looking pale and annoyed. “Of Miss Bell--Cherokee Bell--to be sure.” “You honor me with superior judgment to so accuse, whether it be true or not,” and upon Milburn’s face there was that expression which tells of what is beyond. The other smiled meaningly, and raised his brows. “Ah, my dear boy,” he mutely commented, “I am sorry my supposition is true, but it leaves me wiser, and no transparent scheming goes.” “Tell me your opinion of her, Milburn, I am interested deeply.” “Well, I have always said she was positively refreshing,” began Robert. “She came upon us to recall a bright world. She came as a revelation to some, a reminiscence to others, and caused our social Sahara to blossom with a suddenly enriched oasis.” “Yes, she has that indescribable lissomeness and grace which she doubtless inherits with her Southern blood. I was attracted, too, by the delicacy of her hands and feet, of which she is pardonably proud. But that scar or something disfigures one hand.” Robert spoke up quickly: “That is a birth-mark, I think it is a fern leaf.” “A birth-mark! Oh hopelessly plebeian, don’t you think?” “Your Miss Baxter has a very vivid one upon her neck.” “I beg pardon, then, birthmarks are just the thing.” Frost had commenced in a bantering mood, but now and again his voice would take a more serious tone. “Joking apart, Miss Bell is charming. She is, thanks to God, a being out of the ordinary. She has a style unstinted and all her own. I have upon several occasions made myself agreeable, partly for my own gratification and partly because I saw in her eyes that she admired me.” Frost leaned back in intended mock conceit, no small portion of which appeared genuine. Robert gave way to laughter, in which just a tinge of annoyance might have been detected. “She is quite accustomed to these attentions, for all her life adoration has been her daily bread.” “I should like to know how you are so well posted?” asked Frost, with a dark flash in his grey eyes.