When I asked some very simple and natural questions of Winifred Anstice, she snapped at me like a snapping-turtle; but I did not discontinue my investigation on that account. On the contrary, I resolved to be all the more watchful; and when it comes to putting two and two together, there are few who have a more mathematical mind than Susan Standish. On Friday evening, we had a picnic supper at Eagle Rock. Mr. Flint (superior as usual) preferred to go in the only society which interests him, and therefore set off _alone_ in his dory. His absence did not have any visibly depressing effect on the party in the sail-boat. Winifred was at her very best; and Philip Brady seemed to appreciate her. If I were a matchmaker, I should have tried to throw them together, for they do seem just cut out for each other; in spite of all my efforts to give them opportunities of making each other's acquaintance on intimate terms, they never appeared to take advantage of them. But on Friday it was different. In the first place, anything more warm-blooded than an oyster must have fallen in love with Winifred at first sight on that evening. She wore a white flannel yachting-dress, and a red-felt hat cocked up on one side, and as she stood against the sail in the sunset, she was--Well, I'm too old to be silly; but really that girl is something worth looking at when she is nice. To-day, she looked like a frump, and talked like a fury. The wind on Friday died out soon after we started; and at one time I was afraid Mr. Flint would have the satisfaction of getting to the Point before us; but, providentially, it sprang up again and, indeed, I need not have worried, for it seemed he was afraid of being bored, and did not start till six o'clock. Brady says he was always like that, even in college; that when they were invited anywhere, Flint would always put off the start, and would say, "Your coming away depends on your hostess; but your going depends upon yourself." "If it had been _my_ house," said I, "his _staying_ away would have depended on his hostess. I have no patience with a rude man." "Flint rude?" said Philip. "Most decidedly rude, I should say." "Oh, but he is not rude. He is only indifferent." "Indifference is rudeness." "Then I'm afraid, Miss Standish," broke in Winifred, "we must all be rude to most of the world. That is, unless we belong to the Salvation Army, like Nora Costello, and take an interest in everybody or rather every soul." "Very remarkable girl, that Nora Costello," said Philip. "I don't quite know what it was that made her so interesting." "_I_ know," answered Winifred, with a little laugh; "it was her looks." "Or her manner," suggested Philip. "Oh, her manner without her looks would not have carried at all. Manners are only thunder. It is looks that strike." "You should know," Philip said quite low. Just at this moment Jimmy Anstice, with that exasperatingly inopportune way of his, called out:--