The girl was in her best mood, with the manner of a confiding, intimate friend. She talked about Margaret, but not too much, and a good deal more about Henderson and his future, not laying too great stress upon the marriage, as if it were, in fact, only an incident in his career, contriving always to make herself appear as a friend, who hadn't many illusions or much romance, to be sure, but who could always be relied on in any mood or any perplexity, and wouldn't be frightened or very severe at any confidences. She posed as a woman who could make allowances, and whose friendship would be no check or hinderance. This was conveyed in manner as much as in words, and put Henderson quite at his ease. He was not above the weakness of liking the comradeship of a woman of whom he was not afraid, a woman to whom he could say anything, a woman who could make allowances. Perhaps he was hardly conscious of this. He knew Carmen better than she thought he knew her, and he couldn't approve of her as a wife; and yet the fact was that she never gave him any moral worries. “Yes,” she said, when the talk drifted that way, “the chrysalis earl has gone. I think that mamma is quite inconsolable. She says she doesn't understand girls, or men, or anything, these days.” “Do you?” asked Henderson, lightly. “I? No. I'm an agnostic--except in religion. Have you got it into your head, my friend, that I ever fancied Mr. Lyon?” “Not for himself--” began Henderson, mischievously. “That will do.” She stopped him. “Or that he ever had any intention--” “I don't see how he could resist such--” “Stuff! See here, Mr. Rodney!” The girl sprang up, seized a plaque from the table, held it aloft in one hand, took half a dozen fascinating, languid steps, advancing and retreating with the grace of a Nautch girl, holding her dress with the other hand so as to allow a free movement. “Do you think I'd ever do that for John the Lyon's head on a charger?” Then her mood changed to the domestic, as she threw herself into an easy-chair and said: “After all, I'm rather sorry he has gone. He was a man you could trust; that is, if you wanted to trust anybody--I wish I had been made good.” When Henderson bade her good-night it was with the renewed impression that she was a very diverting comrade. “I'm sort of sorry for you,” she said, and her eyes were not so serious as to offend, as she gave him her hand, “for when you are married, you know, as the saying is, you'll want some place to spend your evenings.” The audacity of the remark was quite obscured in the innocent frankness and sweetness of her manner.