“No,” replied Stella, “a foolish man doesn’t think, a brave man thinks and sees, and still acts—at least, that is how it strikes me, although perhaps I have no right to an opinion. But Mr. Monk is going on, so I must say good-morning.” “Are many of the ladies about here so inquisitive, and the young gentlemen so?”—“decided” she was going to say, but changed the word to “kind”—asked Stella of Morris as they walked homeward. “Ladies!” snapped Morris. “Miss Layard isn’t a lady, and never will be; she has neither birth nor breeding, only good looks of a sort and money. I should like,” he added, viciously—“I should like to shut her into her own coal mine.” Stella laughed, which was a rare thing with her—usually she only smiled—as she answered: “I had no idea you were so vindictive, Mr. Monk. And what would you like to do with Mr. Layard?” “Oh! I—never thought much about him. He is an ignorant, uneducated little fellow, but worth two of his sister, all the same. After all, he’s got a heart. I have known him do kind things, but she has nothing but a temper.” Meanwhile, at the luncheon table of the Stop-gap the new and mysterious arrival, Miss Fregelius, was the subject of fierce debate. “Pretty! I don’t call her pretty,” said Miss Layard; “she has fine eyes, that is all, and they do not look quite right. What an extraordinary garment she had on, too; it might have come out of Noah’s Ark.” “I fancy,” suggested the hostess, a mild little woman, “that it came out of the wardrobe of the late Mrs. Monk. You know, Miss Fregelius lost all her things in that ship.” “Then if I were she I should have stopped at home until I got some new ones,” snapped Miss Layard. “Perhaps everybody doesn’t think so much about clothes as you do, Eliza,” suggested her brother Stephen, seeing an opportunity which he was loth to lose. Eliza, in the privacy of domestic life, was not a person to be assailed with a light heart, but in company, when to some extent she must keep her temper under control, more might be dared. She shifted her chair a little, with her a familiar sign of war, and while searching for a repartee which would be sufficiently crushing, cast on Stephen a glance that might have turned wine into vinegar. Somewhat tremulously, for unless the fire could be damped before it got full hold, she knew what they might expect, the little hostess broke in with— “What a beautiful singing voice she has, hasn’t she?” “Who?” asked Eliza, pretending not to understand. “Why, Miss Fregelius, of course.” “Oh, well, that is a matter of opinion.” “Hang it all, Eliza!” said her brother, “there can’t be two opinions about it, she sings like an angel.” “Do you think so, Stephen? I should have said she sings like an opera dancer.” “Always understood that their gifts lay in their legs and not in their throats. But perhaps you mean a prima donna,” remarked Stephen reflectively.