“Very much like any other city bred gentleman,” Alice replied. “A little stiff, perhaps, especially in the matter of shirt fronts and collars. Jeff,—that’s the dreadful boy,—says he changes them every day, and he does impress you as having just been washed and ironed, he looks so clean from his head to his feet.” “Nonsense! You are comparing him with those sweaty men on your uncle’s farm. Seven shirts and collars and fourteen cuffs a week! What a laundry bill! But go on. Is he good looking?” “Yes; with a rather delicate cast of countenance for a man. He was very polite, and after his stiffness wore off, talked delightfully. He mistook me for _you_.” “Oh,” Helen said quickly, as if not quite pleased. “You undeceived him of course.” “Certainly I did. I told him I was only your cousin, a teacher in a district school among the mountains.” “I don’t see the need of your dragging that in,” Helen said, and Alice rejoined, “Knowing how rich you are he might think me rich, too, and I don’t want to sail under false colors.” Helen, to whom deception, or even a lie was nothing, if circumstances warranted it, tossed her head and continued, “What are his tastes? What does he like?” “He likes the country, especially Ridgefield.” “So do I adore it. Go on.” “He likes rowing.” Helen had a mortal terror of a sail boat and could scarcely ever be persuaded to enter one, but answered quickly: “So do I. Go on.” “He likes driving over the hills and into the woods.” Helen made a grimace, for if there were anything she detested it was driving over the country roads in country vehicles. But if Craig liked it, she liked it, too, and said so. “What next?” she asked, and Alice replied, “He likes to sit on the north piazza, where it is cool, and away from the street.” “Now you please me; that is delicious. What does he do? Smoke?” “I think not, or drink either.” “That’s bad. What _does_ he do?” “Reads, I judge, as he had a book with him.” “Reads what? Tennyson, I hope. I went through with the May Queen and one or two other poems.” “I think his preference is Browning.” “Browning!” Helen almost shrieked. “I never read a line of him in my life. Do you mean he likes Browning and will talk to me about _him_?” “I think so. He belongs to a Browning club, and is trying to master Sordello.” “Sordello! What’s that?” Helen asked. “I am sure I don’t know. A man, I imagine,” Alice replied. “He said he found it hard work reading alone and suggested that we join him for half an hour, or an hour, every afternoon.” “Oh, horror,” Helen cried in dismay. “Join a Browning club, and not know a thing except that I have seen Mrs. Browning’s house and grave in Florence, and mamma had to tell me who she was. Do you think there is a library in town?” and Helen began to brighten. Alice thought there must be. She would inquire.