"It's because I have so much more than I ever dreamed of having, Dorothy," he answered, in a low tone, just touching her hair in the shadow. "A year ago--do you remember? That same song, on the terrace? It expressed what I felt; for then I had no hope. But now--" Here a voice from the group of ladies said, "Mr. Mackenzie will know; ask him." And Mackenzie, returning to the light, was the attentive host again. Waddy, meanwhile, crossed the grass quickly to the honeysuckle path. He was the last to take leave; when Mackenzie returned, after escorting Mrs. North and Mrs. Tracy to the Villa Dorio, he was still in the garden with Dorothy. Fifteen minutes later, through the open windows of Mrs. North's chamber there came the sound of steps. "Waddy," said Charlotte Tracy, peeping through the closed blinds, and recognizing his figure. "He has outstayed everybody." "You are no longer afraid of him, I trust?" inquired Mrs. North. "Certainly not," said the older lady with decision. After a moment she added, "She must always amuse herself, I suppose." "She has the very best of safeguards." "Now there you go, with your cold-blooded judgments, Laura! Dorothy has as deep feelings as anybody. I don't know where you get your knowledge of her; you are her step-mother, it is true; but I have been with her as constantly as you have for years." "Quite so. May I ask how well you knew her father?" "I don't care!" was Charlotte's reply. She left the room with majesty. The majesty lasted through the hall, and into her own chamber, as she reflected, "_I_ have feelings. And Dorothy has feelings. But Laura is a stone!" At this moment she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror, and majesty collapsed. "Do I look like that? Do I? Stout, short-nosed?" And she sank down on a sofa overwhelmed. But presently a laugh broke through her discomfiture. "The very next crumpled little old man I see, I'll be nice to him! I'll ask who is his favorite poet, and I'll get him to quote--yes, even if it's Byron!" Mrs. Tracy's favorite author was Ibsen. "You will do it if I wish, won't you, Alan?" said Dorothy the next day. "Why, if you really wish it--if you think it best--" began Mackenzie. "She doesn't in the least," interposed Mrs. North. "Don't indulge her so; you will spoil her." Mackenzie's eyes turned towards his wife. "Don't look at me to see whether mamma is right," said Dorothy, laughing; "invent an opinion of your own about me--do! But let us have something striking; consider me capable of murder, for instance, not of mere commonplace selfishness. Every woman is capable of murder once; I am perfectly sure of it." "My dear," said Mackenzie, expostulatingly. "I don't know whether I could quite do it with my own hands," Dorothy went on, stretching out her palms and looking at them. "But Felicia Philipps could; yes, with her long fingers. Brrrr!" And she rushed to her husband and hid her face on his arm.