"Bless your dear heart, no!" exclaimed Miss Ruth sharply. "Now, would she sit and listen to you if she were? She does n’t know one note from another." It seemed to Marjolaine that the conversation was becoming rather personal, so she held her tongue. But Miss Ruth evidently had something on her mind of which she was anxious to relieve herself. "No, it is n’t that," she said with a world of meaning which challenged enquiry. Marjolaine obliged her, although she felt no interest. "What is it, then?" Having succeeded in getting the question she wanted, Miss Ruth made a feint of retreating. "Pfft!" she said, with the action of blowing some annoying insect away, and then, cryptically, "Oh! grant me patience!" "Ruth!" exclaimed Marjolaine, astonished at her violence. "Well!" cried Ruth, still more sharply. "It seems to me the whole house is bewitched—that ever I should say such a thing." Marjolaine grew more and more surprised. "Oh! I thought you were so happy!" "I ’m happy enough," snapped Ruth, "because I ’m not a fool. But what with that feller upstairs, and Barbara down, a body has no peace of her life." Now, what could she mean? Of course Mr. Pringle was upstairs, and of course Barbara was downstairs. How could that perfectly natural state of things affect the peace of Miss Ruth’s life? "Tell me," said Marjolaine. "Ha’ n’t you noticed anything? No. I s’pose you ’re too young. Don’t know sheeps’ eyes when you see ’em!" What on earth had sheeps’ eyes come into the story for? "Sheeps’ eyes?" Marjolaine asked, utterly puzzled. "’T is n’t for me to say anything," Miss Ruth continued, "but with him mooning about the house, like"—words failed her—"like I don’t know what; and her moping, like a hen with the pip, it’s enough to give a body the fantoddles—as my poor, dear mother used to say." [Illustration: "IT’S ENOUGH TO GIVE A BODY THE FANTODDLES, AS MY POOR DEAR MOTHER USED TO SAY"] Marjolaine suddenly saw light. Here, under her very eyes, was another romance, like her own—only, of course, on an infinitely lower plane, because it held no thread of tragedy—and she had been blind to it. This was lovely! But she must make sure. She turned to Miss Ruth and asked eagerly—"Are they—are they fond of each other?" Ruth quite unnecessarily bit off another cotton-end. "I don’t know!" she cried crossly; but at once added, "Yes, of course they are!" Marjolaine was more puzzled than ever. "Then, why don’t they say so?" she asked, quite simply. "That’s what I want to know," said Miss Ruth. Lovers who might be perfectly happy, kept apart for want of a word, thought Marjolaine. How wicked, and how silly! "You should speak to Mr. Basil," she said, with all the gravity of her nineteen years and of her bitter experience.