“Why, that very idea came into my mind at the moment,” replied Marguerite. “I thought this afternoon I’d run up to Riverdale and stay with the Hallidays next week, when all of a sudden Newport came into my mind, and it has been struggling there with Riverdale for two hours—until I almost began to believe somebody was trying to compel me to go to Newport. If it is your idea, and has been all along, I’ll go; but if Stuart Harley is trying to get me down there for literary purposes, I simply shall not do it.” “You had better dismiss that idea from your mind at once, my dear,” said Mrs. Willard. “Mr. Harley never compels. No compulsion is the corner-stone of his literary structure; free will is his creed: you may count on that. If he means to make you his heroine still, it will be at Newport if you are at Newport, at Riverdale if you happen to be at Riverdale. Do come with me, even if he does impress you as endeavoring to force you; for at Newport I shall be your chaperon, and I should dearly love to be put in a book—with you. Bob has asked Jack Perkins down, and Mrs. Howlett writes me that Count Bonetti, of Naples, is there, and is a really delightful fellow. We shall have—” “You simply confirm my fears,” interrupted Marguerite. “You are to be Harley’s chaperon, Professor Perkins is his hero, and Count Bonetti is the villain—” “Why, Marguerite, how you talk!” cried Mrs. Willard. “Do you exist merely in Stuart Harley’s brain? Do I? Are we none of us living creatures to do as we will? Are we nothing more than materials pigeon-holed for Mr. Harley’s future use? Has Count Bonetti crossed the ocean just to please Mr. Harley?” “I don’t know what I believe,” said Miss Andrews, “and I don’t care much either way, as long as I have independence of action. I’ll go with you, Dorothy; but if it turns out, as I fear, that we are expected to act our parts in a Harley romance, that romance will receive a shock from which it will never recover.” “Why do you object so to Mr. Harley, anyhow? I thought you liked his books,” said Mrs. Willard. “I do; some of them,” Marguerite answered; “and I like him; but he does not understand me, and until he does he shall not put me in his stories. I’ll rout him at every point, until he—” Marguerite paused. Her face flushed. Tears came into her eyes. “Until he what, dearest?” asked Mrs. Willard, sympathetically. “I don’t know,” said Marguerite, with a quiver in her voice, as she rose and left the room. “I fancy we’d better go at once, Bob,” said Mrs. Willard to her husband, later on. “Marguerite is quite upset by the experiences of the day, and New York is fearfully hot.” “I agree with you,” returned Willard. “Jerrold sent word this afternoon that the boat will be ready Friday, instead of Thursday of next week; so if you’ll pack up to-morrow we can board her Friday, and go up the Sound by water instead of by rail. It will be pleasanter for all hands.”