In twenty-four hours she had put a stop to Frida's disappearances, to Durant's sketching, and to the Colonel's intellectual conversation; and this she did by behaving so as to make these things impossible. In short, she had taken possession of her cousin and her black mare, of the Colonel and his cigarettes, of Mrs. Fazakerly and her books, of everybody and everything except Durant. She was friendly with him, but somehow her friendliness was infinitely more unflattering than Miss Tancred's former apathy. It implied that he was all very well in his way, but that she had seen too many of his sort to be greatly excited about him; while in Frida Tancred, now, she had found something absolutely and uniquely new. She was not going to be put off with Durant; she fastened herself upon Frida, and refused to let her go; she did the thing she had said she would do--without absolutely ignoring her fellow-guest, she talked to Frida or at Frida or for Frida alone. And yet, strangely enough, by dint of much observation she had detected a subtle resemblance between them, and she proclaimed her discovery with her natural frankness. It was the second evening of her stay, and the three were sitting out on the lawn together. She had been looking long and earnestly at her mysterious kinswoman. "Frida, you really are a sort of cousin, aren't you?" "So I've always been told." "And Mr. Durant, is he a sort of cousin, too?" "I never heard that." "I'm afraid I have not the honor." "That's odd. I thought he must be." "Why?" asked Miss Tancred. "Oh, because there's a likeness somewhere. Not in the face exactly, but--yes, there! Keep that expression on your face one minute, Mr. Durant; now don't you see it?" "See what?" "It--the likeness. He looks terribly reserved somehow--a sort of wild-horses-shan't-draw-it-out-of-me expression, and yet so fearfully restless; and that's just like you." There was an embarrassed silence; and then Miss Chatterton again raised her cheerful voice. "I say, Frida! you might tell me exactly what I'm in for. Are you two going to be horribly intellectual and clever and that sort of thing?" "I'm not," said Miss Tancred. "I'm not," echoed Durant. "Thank Heaven! Because you both look as if you'd a tremendous lot in you. I wonder if you'll ever let it out." "Not if we can help it," said Durant. "There you are again! If you're not Frida's first cousin, you ought to be." Durant smiled; he wondered whether the idea was more than the random frolicking of Miss Chatterton's brain. She was evidently a young woman of perception; but her perceptions had wings, and she threw them off from her in a manner altogether spontaneous, impersonal and free. It was nothing to her if they brushed against the truth sometimes in their irresponsible flight. "You don't mind all these personal remarks, do you?" "Not in the least," said Miss Tancred. "For my part I rather like them," said Durant; but they both carefully avoided each other's eyes. XI