“Well, I do call that cute!” drawled Anastasia. “That’s the best thing you’ve said yet, only it’s not true. However, we needn’t go into that. Now, Miss Lestrange, you’ve made a great mistake; if you had left the matter in your brother’s hands you’d never have heard of it again--that is to say, you wouldn’t seriously have heard of it. But, somehow or other, you’ve put an idea into my head; well, that was a mistake. I have very few ideas, and I always act upon them. I’m going to act right now; but I don’t want an audience--so, good-by!” Anastasia rose too. She was head and shoulders above her companion, and Miss Lestrange drew a long breath at the sight of her majestic swaying figure. This was a woman to wreck kingdoms, and why should she bother her head about a boy--a boy like Leslie, whose connections she didn’t even know, whose disabilities she must, of course, see? It was all very odd. The two women looked at each other for a moment. “I can’t understand you,” said Miss Lestrange at last, a little helplessly, “and I don’t see that I can offer you anything you want in exchange for what I ask.” “You can’t,” said Anastasia; “nobody can offer me what I want except chocolates. Fortunately, I’m still very fond of chocolates. Well, good-by, Miss Lestrange; I’m sorry I can’t oblige you, but I’ve got to be amused, and I am going to amuse myself with your nephew.” “Oh, amuse yourself as much as you like,” murmured Miss Lestrange, holding out her hand in farewell, “but don’t marry him!” “I guess you’re going to be disappointed,” observed Anastasia, as her companion, reaching the door, turned to look back at her. “I guess you’re going to feel disconnected, too!” Miss Lestrange didn’t know what her hostess meant, but she had said all she had to say and done all she could do. There was nothing more to act upon, and she knew that she had failed. Suddenly Miss Lestrange felt old and helpless; something that had always accompanied her--a sense of the inherent dignity and interest of her position--which made her observe the world blandly, as one who has a right to a front seat on a grand-stand--left her. She felt as if she was, after all, only one of the crowd, liable to be pushed and jogged by elbows, even liable to be thrust permanently aside. She stood quite still in the finely upholstered lounge of the big hotel, and a waiter came up and asked her if he could bring her anything. “Yes,” said Miss Lestrange, sitting down at one of the many little tables scattered about. “You may bring me a cup of tea. Perhaps,” she said to herself, “that was what I wanted. I have missed my tea.” VIII