She did not promise. She was still thinking of the feud between the families. Her conscience was troubling her a little. “Your grandfather--Mr. Cook--wouldn’t like to have you know me, would he?” she insisted. “Honestly, now?” “Well--well, perhaps he wouldn’t. But--” “And my uncle wouldn’t like it at all. Uncle Foster has been so kind to me that--why, I can’t begin to tell you how kind he has been. He is the best man in the world.” “Oh, say! Look here! He isn’t any better than my grandfather.” “Bob Griffin! How _can_ you say that?” “But it is so. They are both good men, I guess. But they had a fight and now they have been fighting so long they think all the rest of creation must fight on one side or the other. We don’t have to fight, you and I, just because they do.” “But Mr. Cook shouldn’t have brought that suit. He was all wrong and it was wicked of him, Uncle Foster says--” “Now just a minute. You ought to hear what Grandfather says.... Humph! I guess there are two sides to that suit, just as there are to most fights. You haven’t heard but one side, have you?” It was true, she had not, and she was obliged to admit it. “No-o,” she confessed, “I suppose I haven’t. But you haven’t, either.” His laugh was so unaffected and good-humored that, once more, hers joined it. “I guess you are right there,” he agreed. “Well, let’s do this: Sometime you tell me your side--your uncle’s side, I mean--and then I’ll tell Grandfather’s. We can have a real court argument. And until then we’ll forget the darned thing. And we’re going to see each other in Paris; American lawsuits don’t hold over there. Yes, and we’ll see each other a whole lot before then.” She shook her head. “I don’t think we had better,” she said. “Besides--how could we?” “Why, at the rehearsal and the concert. Yes, and afterwards. I haven’t half told you about my painting. I have two or three sketches and things I want to show you. They aren’t so bad--not so awfully bad--honest, they aren’t. And say, I want to try a portrait sketch of you some day. In your costume, perhaps. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?” Before she could answer a rattle of wheels sounded from the road. They had been so engrossed in their conversation that neither had noticed the slackening of the storm. Now it was almost light again, the thunder peals sounded far away, and the rain was but an intermittent patter. Around the corner beyond the church came the Townsend span and covered carriage. Mr. Gifford was on the driver’s seat and peering anxiously about. “It’s Varunas,” cried Esther. “He is looking for me. Thank you ever so much for the umbrella, Bob.... Here I am, Varunas!” She ran down the walk. Bob started to run after her and then changed his mind. “See you at the next rehearsal,” he called. “Don’t forget about Paris--or the sketch.” Esther did not reply. She climbed into the carriage. Varunas drew a breath of relief.