“Come in here, Mr. Beaton. I want to show you the great feature of the house.” She opened the low windows that gave upon a glazed veranda stretching across the end of the room. “Just think of this in New York! You can't see it very well at night, but when the southern sun pours in here all the afternoon--” “Yes, I can imagine it,” he said. He glanced up at the bird-cage hanging from the roof. “I suppose Gypsy enjoys it.” “You remember Gypsy?” she said; and she made a cooing, kissing little noise up at the bird, who responded drowsily. “Poor old Gypsum! Well, he sha'n't be disturbed. Yes, it's Gyp's delight, and Colonel Woodburn likes to write here in the morning. Think of us having a real live author in the house! And Miss Woodburn: I'm so glad you've seen her! They're Southern people.” “Yes, that was obvious in her case.” “From her accent? Isn't it fascinating? I didn't believe I could ever endure Southerners, but we're like one family with the Woodburns. I should think you'd want to paint Miss Woodburn. Don't you think her coloring is delicious? And such a quaint kind of eighteenth-century type of beauty! But she's perfectly lovely every way, and everything she says is so funny. The Southerners seem to be such great talkers; better than we are, don't you think?” “I don't know,” said Beaton, in pensive discouragement. He was sensible of being manipulated, operated, but he was helpless to escape from the performer or to fathom her motives. His pensiveness passed into gloom, and was degenerating into sulky resentment when he went away, after several failures to get back to the old ground he had held in relation to Alma. He retrieved something of it with Mrs. Leighton; but Alma glittered upon him to the last with a keen impenetrable candor, a child-like singleness of glance, covering unfathomable reserve. “Well, Alma,” said her mother, when the door had closed upon him. “Well, mother.” Then, after a moment, she said, with a rush: “Did you think I was going to let him suppose we were piqued at his not coming? Did you suppose I was going to let him patronize us, or think that we were in the least dependent on his favor or friendship?” Her mother did not attempt to answer her. She merely said, “I shouldn't think he would come any more.” “Well, we have got on so far without him; perhaps we can live through the rest of the winter.” “I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. He was quite stupefied. I could see that he didn't know what to make of you.” “He's not required to make anything of me,” said Alma. “Do you think he really believed you had forgotten all those things?” “Impossible to say, mamma.” “Well, I don't think it was quite right, Alma.” “I'll leave him to you the next time. Miss Woodburn said you were freezing him to death when I came down.” “That was quite different. But, there won't be any next time, I'm afraid,” sighed Mrs. Leighton.