Helen was such a beautiful figure in her floating white gown, with her drooping, white-plumed hat shading her golden hair as she arose to meet her host that Anne Dallas, as well as little Anne, was dazzled. It seemed a pity that a poet should not be able to look upon such wondrous loveliness. “Mr. Latham, I brought my aunt’s guest, Miss Abercrombie, to see you because--well, she wanted to come! Miss Abercrombie, Mr. Latham,” said Kit. “Miss Carrington would have asked you to come to tea with us, she means to still but I did want to come! Kit is right, and I’ve no better excuse for intruding to add to his,” said Helen, her voice more than ever like a delicate harp blown upon by a breeze. “Ought you apologize for kindness?” suggested Richard. “I am glad to show you my garden. Kit and Miss Dallas know each---- Oh, really, I beg your pardon!” Richard broke off with a shocked gesture. “Miss Dallas, Miss Abercrombie.” Helen bowed. She possessed to perfection the art of grading her bows. This one conveyed to Anne exactly the intended impression of her claim to recognition for service rendered to the public, but not as a social equal. Anne Dallas returned the salutation quietly. She did not miss its quality, but it did not disturb her. She would not have been a woman, a young woman at that, and not have been conscious to her finger tips of the regal beauty of the girl beside her. She did not know that the juxtaposition was planned by Helen to show Kit the contrast between them, but it made her feel like a dull little weed to know that her simple white gown and her smooth, dark hair were contrasting like homespun against the elegant clothing of the other girl and the radiant head held high above her. “Kit Carrington will marry her!” thought Anne, ignoring the stab the thought dealt her. “Mr. Latham, at least, can’t see us together.” Fresh from the enthusiasm of her day’s work, she told herself that Kit did not count if she could hold her place in Richard Latham’s mind. But she had to remind herself of this. “It’s not easy to talk to a poet. I have tried to before, but not to one great enough to make it matter how one talked,” said Helen, accepting Richard’s invitation to the bench under the elms. “Talk to the man, and never mind the poet!” said Richard. “I am not merely a poet. Therefore I wish that I could see you, Miss Abercrombie!” “Now I know how well you fill the rôle I’m to play to! I already had your measure on the poet side,” laughed Helen. “Who is the child that looks like a changeling? Your niece?” “This is Miss Anne Berkley, my intimate friend, Miss Abercrombie, but I cannot claim kinship with her except in mind,” said Richard, gravely. “How charming!” said Helen, carelessly. “How do you do, Miss Anne Berkley? Another Anne!”