“What would you say, dear,” pursued Mrs. Carter, after a brief exchange of commonplaces, “if I were to spend next winter in New York?” “It would be charming if I could live at home. I’m sick of this silly boarding-school.” “Why, Berenice! I thought you liked it.” “I hate it, but only because it’s so dull. The girls here are so silly.” Mrs. Carter lifted her eyebrows as much as to say to her escort, “Now what do you think?” Cowperwood stood solemnly by. It was not for him to make a suggestion at present. He could see that for some reason—probably because of her disordered life—Mrs. Carter was playing a game of manners with her daughter; she maintained always a lofty, romantic air. With Berenice it was natural—the expression of a vain, self-conscious, superior disposition. “A rather charming garden here,” he observed, lifting a curtain and looking out into a blooming plot. “Yes, the flowers are nice,” commented Berenice. “Wait; I’ll get some for you. It’s against the rules, but they can’t do more than send me away, and that’s what I want.” “Berenice! Come back here!” It was Mrs. Carter calling. The daughter was gone in a fling of graceful lines and flounces. “Now what do you make of her?” asked Mrs. Carter, turning to her friend. “Youth, individuality, energy—a hundred things. I see nothing wrong with her.” “If I could only see to it that she had her opportunities unspoiled.” Already Berenice was returning, a subject for an artist in almost studied lines. Her arms were full of sweet-peas and roses which she had ruthlessly gathered. “You wilful girl!” scolded her mother, indulgently. “I shall have to go and explain to your superiors. Whatever shall I do with her, Mr. Cowperwood?” “Load her with daisy chains and transport her to Cytherea,” commented Cowperwood, who had once visited this romantic isle, and therefore knew its significance. Berenice paused. “What a pretty speech that is!” she exclaimed. “I have a notion to give you a special flower for that. I will, too.” She presented him with a rose. For a girl who had slipped in shy and still, Cowperwood commented, her mood had certainly changed. Still, this was the privilege of the born actress, to change. And as he viewed Berenice Fleming now he felt her to be such—a born actress, lissome, subtle, wise, indifferent, superior, taking the world as she found it and expecting it to obey—to sit up like a pet dog and be told to beg. What a charming character! What a pity it should not be allowed to bloom undisturbed in its make-believe garden! What a pity, indeed! CHAPTER XLII. F. A. Cowperwood, Guardian