By the time she finished the lemonade so many leaves had fallen that she removed the rose and laid it on the tray which Mark took from her, carefully gathering every leaf which had dropped upon her dress, and then, foolish man that he was, putting them away in his pocketbook. Mark was in love. Hopelessly, of course, and though nothing could ever come of it he made no effort to smother it. He could, at least, enjoy the crumbs and leave the full table to Craig, who was not so far gone as himself, but whose prejudices were rapidly giving way. It was scarcely possible that so much naturalness and graciousness of manner were consummate acting. Public opinion had been mistaken and had vilified the beautiful girl who sat there, so unconscious of herself, and the admiring glances he gave her from time to time. Mr. Taylor had been called away by Dotty, who had returned with her eggs, and as Mark did not come back Craig was alone with Helen. This was what she had looked forward to. Uncle Zach was a garrulous, amusing old man, who at times was better out of the way. Mark interested her more than she would have thought it possible, and had he been the equal of Craig, as the world defines equality, she would have given him her attention and left Craig alone. She had never flirted with a hotel clerk,—a bartender,—and she scolded herself for thinking so much about him, and contrasting him with Craig, who was inclined to be silent at first. Evidently she must lead the conversation, and she began by asking if he found it at all dull in the country. “I shall like it for a while,” she said. “It is so different from the places we are in the habit of visiting, Saratoga, for instance. We were there last summer. I suppose you have been there?” She looked at him as innocently as if she did not know that her question would pique him a little. Craig Mason and his horse, Dido, had been nearly as conspicuous at the Clarendon as Helen Tracy had been at the United States, and that she should not have heard of him was, to say the least, rather humiliating to his pride. He didn’t know that she was paying him for his slight and that she felt quite repaid when she saw his look of chagrin, which he covered with a laugh as he replied, “Oh, yes, I was there last summer, but did not have the pleasure of meeting you. I heard of you, though. Indeed, everybody did that. How could they help it?” He was complimenting her rather stiffly and blushing like a girl as he did it, but Helen knew she was gaining ground, and thanked him with her eyes which were always as expressive as words. After that they grew very social, and at last, although she tried to stave it off, the conversation turned upon books. It was in vain that Helen brought forward Tennyson as a most charming author. Craig brushed him aside for Browning, his favorite, and hers, too, she finally said, suggesting that she believed he was too obscure for most people to enjoy thoroughly without a teacher.