She laughed softly, not in the least knowing what to say. The statue meant nothing whatever to her, and had the original of Eutychides been placed by its side she would have been unable to understand that in copying it Stanton had transformed its dignity into clumsiness, its grace into vulgarity. Had she been at home in New York, she would have said frankly that she neither knew nor cared anything about the _America_; being in Boston, she had a superstitious feeling that such frankness would be ill-judged, and she therefore contented herself with non-committal laughter. "How do you do, Miss Merrivale?" at this moment said a cheery voice close by her. She looked up to see the merry eyes and corn-colored beard of Chauncy Wilson. "I say, Fred," went on the doctor, confidentially, "don't you think this thing is beastly rubbish? It looks like an old grandmother wrapped up in her bedclothes. And what has she got that toy village on her head for?" "Oh, Doctor Wilson!" exclaimed Miss Merrivale, in a manner that might mean reproval or amusement. Miss Frances was having a very good time. Although Mrs. Staggchase had been throwing her guest and Rangely together for motives of her own, the result to Miss Merrivale had been as pleasing as if her hostess had been purely disinterested. It is true, the time for her return to New York drew near, but visions of the pleasure of imparting to her family and friends the news of her engagement to the brilliant young novelist did much to alleviate her regret at departing from Boston. She had a pleasant consciousness that afternoon, of sharing in the attention which Rangely received in public nowadays, especially since his novel had been violently attacked in the _London Spectator_ and defended in the _Saturday Review_. She noted the glances that were cast at him, receiving their homage with a certain secret feeling of having a share in it. But bliss in this world is always transient, and at her happiest moment Miss Merrivale looked up to perceive Mrs. Amanda Welsh Sampson bearing down upon her. Mrs. Sampson was accompanied by the Hon. Tom Greenfield, who both felt and looked utterly out of place; and who was dragged along in the wake of his companion quite as much by his unwillingness to be left to his own devices in a crowd of strangers, as by any particular desire to follow her. "My dear Frances," the widow said effusively, kissing Miss Merrivale on both cheeks. "I am _so_ glad to see you. Really it is perfectly cruel that you haven't been to see me. But then, I know," she ran on without giving the other time to speak, "how busy you've been. I've seen your name in the _Gossip_, and you've been everywhere." "Yes, I have," returned Miss Merrivale, catching rather awkwardly at the excuse supplied to her. Chauncy Wilson laughed significantly. He never felt it necessary to treat the widow with any especial respect.