She nodded. “You see I was nearly as bad as Mr. Brookins. He came and stood behind my chair while I was playing. When I got up and went out into the garden, he followed. It was all dusky and dimly lit with faery-lamps. I suppose it made him feel romantic. I saw what he was doing out of the corner of my eye; so, for the fun of it, I tried to fascinate him.” “I’ll warrant you did. It was the old game you played with me and the Bantam. You take delight in making other people uncomfortable. It’s the most adventurous thing about you, Fiesole. You’ve got the name of a lullaby and the manners of a mustard-plaster. You’ll be trying to sting me presently, when you catch me sleepy and unaware.” “Not you, Dante.” She spoke my name coaxingly, veiling her eyes with her long lashes. “But you did once.” “Did I? So you still remember?” I was unwilling to be sentimental. “What did you do next to poor Brookins?” She took up the thread of her story with feigned demureness. “I chose out a bench well hidden in the shadows. He came and seated himself on the edge of it, as far away as he could get from me. He cleared his throat several times. I could hear him moistening his lips. Then he whispered, almost turning his back on me, ‘Je vous aime.’ And I whispered, turning my back on him, ‘Do you? Now isn’t that lovely!’” “And then?” “Oh, then, finding I was English, he became more comfy. He began to boast about Oxford and mentioned Lazarus. So I thought to-day the least I could do was to call on him. I didn’t know he was a parson. You should have seen his face when he saw me. I’ve been getting even with him all this afternoon. He thinks I’ve risen out of the buried past to haunt him.” She broke into low musical laughter, shaking her shoulders. “You were cruel, Fiesole. What he said to you was the sum total of the intent of his wickedness. He had reached the limit of his daring.” “I know it. That’s why I don’t like him. He isn’t thorough. He told me that his name was Jordan at Aix. When I asked for him at the lodge to-day, the porter said there weren’t no sich purson. I was turning away, when I saw him coming across quad in full clericals, walking by the side of a stooping old gentleman shaped like the letter C.” “That would be the Warden.” “Oh, was it? Well, he didn’t see me and was walking right by me. I tapped him on the arm and said, ‘Good-afternoon, Mr. Jordan.’ He paled to his lips and stared. The old gentleman raised his hat to me and said, ‘This is Mr. Brookins, not Mr. Jordan, my dear young lady. You must be mistaken.’ ‘Jordan’s my pet name for him,’ I answered. The old gentleman smiled, and smiled again and left us. Then I turned to Mr. Brookins and said, ‘Je vous aime. Be sure your sins will find you out.’ After that I tried to be very nice to him, but somehow I couldn’t make him happy.”