But Mrs. Allonby was not the only witness of this family drama. The voices of the actors, penetrating through the open window of Miss Boundrish, had roused the amiable girl from her slumbers, and caused her, with much irritation and reluctance, conquered by curiosity, to spring from her downy nest, classically dressed in the first thing that came handy, and view the platform scene from her window with appropriate mental comment. A vivid imagination, capable of forging missing links in a chain of evidence at a moment's notice, and then presenting them as veritable parts of the original, enabled her to produce a version entirely her own of what actually occurred. And not content with constructing a consistent romance out of the pantomime enacted in the morning, she insisted upon imparting the whole of it in the afternoon to a few friends in the garden, in a voice that must have been heard all over the grounds, if not by the whole house. It was actually heard by Mrs. Allonby, who, under the mistaken impression that she was writing letters, was basking in the sun among the flowers, idly looking over the lemon-tops and across gorge and ridge to the sea, and peacefully thinking of nothing at all. But, roused from this pleasant occupation by the dulcet accents of her favourite Dorris, she turned and engaged in a sharp verbal encounter with the romancer, and contrived to give her such a severe snubbing (though to snub Dorris was no child's work) as reduced her victorious self to a state of pleasant exhaustion, that made sunshine and fair scenes and _dolce far niente_ more enjoyable than ever. "Surely," murmured the thin man, who had been a silent and apparently unconscious auditor of the fray, in mortal terror lest either antagonist should appeal to him, and who would have fled but for the fear of attracting attention, "our young friend would be quite as happy, and infinitely more charming, had she been born without a tongue?" "Oh, she'd have gurgled and giggled more than ever to make up. Such people ought not to be let loose in civilized hotels." "Poor girl," said the more merciful Agatha, who had just come up, "are we not a little hard on her? An interest in her fellow-creatures, perhaps more zealous than discreet, and a slight congenital deficiency in tact----" "Deficiency? A born cat!" "But a good heart, dear Mrs. Allonby?" "What's the good of a good heart if you don't sheathe your claws?" The thin man and Miss Somers, meeting each other's eyes, smiled; for, whatever she may have given, poor Dorris had undoubtedly received a pretty good but strictly polite clawing before retreating in great disarray from the fur-strewn field. "Do you realize that all our characters are at the mercy of those good-hearted claws, Miss Somers?"