Dorothy sank down, rather wearily, in the low basket-chair which stood near the open window of her mother’s bedroom--a tall French window, with a wide balcony overrun by climbing roses, and a view of the river, and waited for Mrs. Vandeleur to dismiss her maid. As she lay there, adjusting absently the loose tresses of her hair, she could feel the breath of the faint breeze as it wandered, gathering a light burden of fragrance, through the dusky roses; she could see the river, dimly, where the moonbeams touched its ripples, and once or twice the sound of voices reached her from the distant smoking-room. The closing of the door as the maid went out disturbed her reverie, and turning a little in her chair she found her mother regarding her thoughtfully. “No,” said Dorothy, swiftly interpreting her mother’s glance. “You mustn’t send me away, my pretty little mother. I’ll promise not to catch cold. I haven’t been able to talk to you all day.” Mrs. Vandeleur half closed the window, and then seated herself with an expression of resignation on the arm of her daughter’s chair. In the dim light shed by the two candles on the dressing-table, one would have thought them two sisters, plotting innocently the discomfiture of man. The occasion did not prove so stimulating to conversation as might have been expected. For a few minutes both were silent; Dorothy began to hum an air from the Savoy opera, rather recklessly; she kicked off one of her slippers, and it fell on the polished oak floor with a little clatter. “Little donkey!” murmured her mother sweetly. “So much for your talking. I’m going to bed at once.” Then she added, carelessly, “Did you see Jack to-day?” The humming paused abruptly; then it went on for a second, and paused again. “Oh yes, the inevitable Mr. Wilgress was on the river, as usual. He nearly ran us down in that idiotic skiff of his.” Mrs. Vandeleur raised her eyebrows, gazing at her unconscious daughter reflectively. “You didn’t see him alone, then?” she inquired presently. “Who? Mr. Wilgress? Ye-es, I think so. When we got back to the boathouse he insisted on taking me out again in the canoe, to show me the correct Indian stroke. Much he knows about it! That’s why I was so late for dinner. Oh, please don’t talk about Mr. Wilgress.” “Mr. Wilgress again?” murmured Mrs. Vandeleur. “I thought it always used to be ‘Jack.’” “Only, only by accident,” said the girl weakly. “And when he wasn’t there.” “Well, he isn’t here now. At least I hope not. You--you haven’t quarrelled, have you Dolly?” “No--yes. I don’t know. He--he asked me--oh, he was ridiculous. How I hate boys--and jealousy.”