"Something better than that!" Vivien murmured softly. Chapter XXIV. PRETTY MUCH THE SAME! In the spring of the following year Miss Doris Flower returned from an extensive professional tour in America. She had enjoyed great success. The Nun and the Quaker proved thoroughly to the taste of transatlantic audiences; Joan of Arc did not at first create the same enthusiasm in the United States as she had in London, the allusion to the happier relations between France and England naturally not exciting quite equal interest. However an ingenious gentleman supplied the Maid with a vision of General Lafayette instead; though not quite so up-to-date, it more than answered expectations. Across the Canadian border-line the original vision was, of course, restored, and went immensely. It was all one to Miss Flower what visions she had, so that they were to the liking of the public. She came back much pleased with herself, distinctly affluent, and minded to enjoy for awhile a well-earned leisure. Miss Sally Dutton returned with her, charged with a wealth of comment on American ways and institutions, the great bulk of which sensible people could attribute only to the blackest prejudice. The lapse of six months is potent to smooth small causes of awkwardness and to make little changes of feeling or of attitude seem quite natural. Billy Foot had undoubtedly avoided the Nun for the last few weeks before her departure; he saw no reason now why he should not be among the earliest to call and welcome his old friend. It was rather with a humorous twinkle than with any embarrassment that, when they settled down to talk, he asked her if she happened to know the Macquart-Smiths. "Of Kensington?" asked the Nun in a tone of polite interest. "Yes, Kensington Palace Gardens," Billy replied, tranquilly unconscious of any other than the obvious bearing of the question. "I thought you must have heard of them." (The Nun never had, though she had seen at least one of them.) "The old man made a pile out in Mexico. They're very good sort of people." "You brought one of the girls to hear me one night, didn't you?" "Yes. Well, she's the only girl, in fact--Amaranth's her name. Rather silly, but that's not her fault, is it?" He seemed anxious to forestall criticism. "You can call her Amy--or even Aimée," suggested the Nun consolingly. Billy laughed. "Have you heard it, or did you guess, Doris?" "Guessed it. I can guess any conundrum, however baffling. I'm awfully glad, Billy. I'm sure you'll be tremendously happy. When did it happen--and when is it going to happen?" "About a month ago--and in about three months' time. Didn't you think her pretty?" "Very pretty," said the Nun, presuming on a somewhat cursory inspection of Miss Amaranth. "And I suppose that since the old man made his pile--?" "Oh, well, there are two sons. Still--yes, that's all right." "It all sounds splendid. I don't fall in love myself, as I've told you--"