Which was just what Harley wanted. The Willards were of course not conscious of the fact, though Mrs. Willard’s sympathy with Marguerite led her to suspect that such was the case; for that such was the case was what Marguerite feared. “We are being forced, Dorothy,” she said, as she stepped on the yacht two days later. “Well, what if we are? It’s pleasanter going this way than by rail, isn’t it?” Mrs. Willard replied, with some impatience. “If we owe all this to Stuart Harley, we ought to thank him for his kindness. According to your theory he could have sent us up on a hot, dusty train, and had a collision ready for us at New London, in order to kill off a few undesirable characters and give his hero a chance to distinguish himself. I think that even from your own point of view Mr. Harley is behaving in a very considerate fashion.” “No doubt you think so,” returned Marguerite, spiritedly. “But it’s different with you. You are settled in life. Your husband is the man of your choice; you are happy, with everything you want. You will do nothing extraordinary in the book. If you did do something extraordinary you would cease to be a good chaperon, and from that moment would be cast aside; but I—I am in a different position altogether. I am a single woman, unsettled as yet, for whom this author in his infinite wisdom deems it necessary to provide a lover and husband; and in order that his narrative of how I get this person he has selected—without consulting my tastes—may interest a lot of other girls, who are expected to buy and read his book, he makes me the object of an intriguing fortune-hunter from Italy. I am to believe he is a real nobleman, and all that; and a stupid wiseacre from the York University, who can’t dance, and who thinks of nothing but his books and his club, is to come in at the right moment and expose the Count, and all such trash as that. I know at the outset how it all is to be. You couldn’t deceive a sensible girl five minutes with Count Bonetti, any more than that Balderstone man, who is now making a useless trip across the Atlantic with my aunt and her twins, could have exerted a ‘baleful influence’ over me with his diluted spiritualism. I’m not an idiot, my dear Dorothy.” “You are a heroine, love,” returned Mrs. Willard. “Perhaps—but I am the kind of heroine who would stop a play five minutes after the curtain had risen on the first act if the remaining four acts depended on her failing to see something that was plain to the veriest dolt in the audience,” Marguerite replied, with spirit. “Nobody shall ever write me up save as I am.” “Well—perhaps you are wrong this time. Perhaps Mr. Harley isn’t going to make a book of you,” said Mrs. Willard. “Very likely he isn’t,” said Marguerite; “but he’s trying it—I know that much.” “And how, pray?” asked Mrs. Willard.