Ermengarde, who had listened guilelessly, supposing these remarks to be addressed to the general public, suddenly changed colour, while another voice, that of Agatha, as suddenly struck in, "Miss Boundrish, you are positively slanderous. Such things ought not to be said, even if true, which they are not." "Say, Miss Somers, don't you get mad," the American lady began. "I judge this young Isidore can look after himself some, whoever makes eyes at him, Miss Boundrish. There are folks must flirt, if it's only with a broomstick; they just can't help making eyes when there's any men around. I guess they don't know they're doing it all the time." "When people are attractive," came in Lady Seaton's exact intonation, "they are often accused of trying to attract." "Oh, attract," gurgled Miss Boundrish. "How anyone can be attracted by a nose like that--why, you might hang your hat upon it. And as for her waist----" "Want of style," her mother suggested, "while her dress----" "Oh, she don't calculate to dress any. She just slumps along anyhow up in these mountains, I judge. I never was much on the apple-cheeked, yalla-haired sort--British gells are too beefy for my taste--else she's pretty enough, and, my! don't her eyes snap; nights, when she kind of fancies herself!" "And thinks she can play bridge, and tries to strum on the piano," added Dorris viciously. "Were our fair friend the subject of masculine comment," observed Mr. Welbourne impressively, "the verdict would, I venture to predict, be one of whole-hearted admiration on every count." "Thank you," sighed Ermengarde in her corner, whence she dared not try to escape. "Oh, a man's woman is pretty much the same as a lady's man," Dorris gurgled, "so they say." "You may stake your pile on that, Miss Boundrish," the American corroborated. "And you don't suppose that hair of hers is all grown on the premises," continued Dorris acidly. "Whatever you suppose, I've seen it brushed out," Agatha retorted--"lovely hair, like floss-silk." "At any rate, no hair could be that colour naturally, and it gets brighter every day--thanks to the climate, I suppose. The Monte Carlo yellows are famous, you know----" "Cat!" murmured Ermengarde. "How I should enjoy the twisting of yours!" "But what I simply can't _stand_," pursued the injured maiden plaintively, "is her making herself out to be somebody--pretending to be that man's wife----" "Ah, well! this can't be me. _I_ don't pretend to be anybody's wife," thought Ermengarde. "She _is_ his wife," Agatha said. "Or one of his wives. He may have dozens for all we know----" "Dorris, my _dear_," faltered her poor mother, blushing wildly. "Well, mater, so he may; that kind of man often does. And, as I said before, nobody knows anything about her, or whether she has any husband at all--she may have five--or six----"