He picked up a hideous china swan from a smart little oak stand and examined it with excessive interest. "It was merely that I happen to know some one in New York who had mentioned you--and done it in a way to make me think you were not--very old. In fact, I had supposed that Miss Mary Carstairs wore short dresses and a plait down her back. You see," he said, with a well-planned smile, "how absurdly wrong I was. And then, just now, somebody pointed out your house to me. There was a girl standing in the doorway--a small, dark girl, with--" A peal like chimes cut him short. "Dear Jenny Thurston! Our seamstress's little girl. She is spending the day with my mother, while I've been spending most of the day with _her_ mother! Turn about! But I wish you'd tell me," she said, "who it is that could have spoken of me--to you. How interesting that we have a friend in common!" "Not a friend," he said grimly, at the window. "Only a former-- acquaintance of yours--somebody that I imagine you have pretty well forgotten. I'll tell you--another time. But I see it has stopped raining, Miss--Miss--Miss Carstairs. Perhaps we had better take advantage of the lull to start?--for I hope you are going to let me act for Mr. Hare, and walk home wih you." "Oh--would you! Then indeed we had!" she said rising at once. "I am horribly late now: I know my mother is frantic. I don't mind your not telling me that, really! But--it is odd that you should have spoken of my age twice to-night. Shall I tell you something, Mr. Stanhope--to show you why I have had to give up pigtails? This is my birthday: I am nineteen to-day!" She raised her eyes, shining, heavy-fringed, deep as the sea and bluer, and looked at him. His own fell instantly. A shade of annoyance flitted across his still face. "It is a delightful surprise," he said, mechanically. "But you must not call me Mr. Stanhope, please, Miss Carstairs." "Why--mayn't I call you by your name?" "My name," said Varney, "in fairly legible print, is on the card which you hold in your hand." She raised her eyes and looked at him, perplexed, hesitating, a little mortified, like one who has encountered an unlooked-for rebuff. "Forgive me," she ventured rather shyly, "but do you think it would be possible for you to--to keep an incog here--where you must have so many friends? If you want to do that--to try it--of course I'll not tell a soul. But I'd like it very much if you could trust--_me_, who have known you through your books for so long." "I should be quite willing to trust you, Miss Carstairs, but there is nothing to trust you about. I am not incog. I am not the author. I have written no books whatever--" "Ah! Then good-bye," she said with a swift change of manner, starting at once for the door. "I shall not trouble you to walk home with me. Thank you again for giving me shelter and light during the storm." "Will you be good enough to wait one minute?"