“Best in town. Awful hard to get into. Always full up. Relative of hers?” “No, just a boarder. I chanced to get a room some one else engaged and couldn’t use.” “You’re lucky. Met Bob Tyler?” “Yes.” “You don’t like him! I see that. Met Gordon Lockwood?” “No; who’s he?” “He’s Doctor Waring’s secretary, but he’s mighty worthwhile on his own account. I say, may I come to see you?” “Thank you, no. I’m not receiving callers—yet.” “Well, you will be soon—because I’m coming. I say my aunt lives next door to Adams’. May I bring her to call on you?” “Not yet, please. I’m not settled.” “Soon’s you say the word, then. My aunt is Mrs. Bates, and she’s a love. She’s going to marry Doctor Waring—so you see we’re the right sort of people.” “There are no right sort of people,” said the girl, and, turning, she walked away. CHAPTER III THIRTEEN BUTTONS Apparently Miss Austin’s statement that there were no right sort of people was her own belief, for she made no friends at the Adams house. Nor was this the fault of her fellow-boarders. They were more than willing to be friendly, but their overtures were invariably ignored. Not rudely, for Miss Austin seemed to be a girl of culture and her manners were correct, but, as one persistent matron expressed it, “you can’t get anywhere with her.” She talked to no one at the table, merely answering a direct question if put to her. She retained the seat next Old Salt, seeming to rely on him to protect her from the advances of the others. Not that she needed protection, exactly, for Miss Anita Austin was evidently quite able to take care of herself. But she was a mystery—and mysteries provoke inquiry. The house was not a large one, and the two-score boarders, though they would have denied an imputation of curiosity, were exceedingly interested in learning the facts about Miss Mystery, as they had come to call her. Mrs. Adams was one of the most eager of all to know the truth, but, as he did on rare occasions, Old Salt Adams had set down his foot that the girl was not to be annoyed. “I don’t know who she is or where she hails from,” he told his wife, “but as long as she stays here, she’s not to be pestered by a lot of gossiping old hens. When she does anything you don’t like, send her away; but so long’s she’s under my roof, she’s got to be let alone.” And let alone she was—not so much because of Adams’ dictum as because “pestering” did little good. The girl had a disconcerting way of looking an inquisitor straight in the eyes, and then, with a monosyllabic reply, turning and walking off as if the other did not exist. “Why,” said Miss Bascom, aggrievedly relating her experience, “I just said, politely, ‘Are you from New York or where, Miss Austin?’ and she turned those big, black eyes on me, and said, ‘Where.’ Then she turned her back and looked out of the window, as if she had wiped me off the face of the earth!”