"Thank you," he remarks, with immense dignity. "I understand," with cutting irony, "the reason of your spite. You wanted Mr. Langton's money yourself." "Not a bit of it," decidedly. "Thank goodness, I know how to earn my own living. Not but that Uncle Langton has treated me unfairly, though. I am as near kin to him as Maud. My father was his own brother. Why should he make her his heiress, and marry her to the son of his old sweetheart, cutting me off with a beggarly invitation to spend three weeks, and be her bride's-maid?" "Why don't you tell him that?" he queries, watching the rich color deepen on the delicate cheek. "I don't care to," with careless indifference. "I don't want his money." "No--do you mean to say you do not care for all this?" He glances around him at the spacious white villa, set in the midst of a green, flower-gemmed lawn, shaded by stately trees. "Only think, my lady disdain: A summer home in these grand old mountains, a winter palace in Washington, a cottage by the sea, and a fabulous bank account; does it all count for nothing in your eyes?" "Yes," pertly, "if, like poor Maud, I had to take _you_ as an incumbrance with it all!" He flushes with wounded vanity and anger. "The feeling is mutual," he retorts, under the spur of pride. "If I had to take _you_ with Mr. Langton's money, it might go to found an idiot asylum." "Vane Charteris, I hate you!" she exclaims, with a flash of childish passion. "I take it as a compliment," he replies, with a profound bow. "Quarreling as usual," says a clear, sweetly modulated voice, and both turn with a start. A tall, imperially stately woman has come sauntering down the path from the house. You think of Tennyson's description: "A daughter of the gods, divinely tall. And most divinely fair." Vane Charteris' face lights with languid pleasure. It is Maud Langton, his betrothed. This very night she is to be his bride. "Ah, Maud," he says, "I am glad you are come. Perhaps you will deliver me from this little vixen!" There is a grave, far-away look in the light blue eyes of the bride-elect. She looks at Reine, not at her lover, as she answers lightly: "It is very undignified to call names, Vane, and how often have I told you, Reine, that you must bridle that sharp tongue of yours?" "_He_ began it," mutters Reine, with a childish petulance. "You should have known better than to tease the child, Vane," says Miss Langton. "If you are in fault, you must apologize, of course." "I'll be shot if I do," he begins, stoutly, then stops at her look of dignified amaze, and says, with a gleam of tender relenting: "Very well, Maud. Of course I can refuse _you_ nothing on this day of _all_ days. See here, Reine, I beg your pardon for what I said. Will you forgive me?" "No, I won't--so there!" she flashes, with some wrathful tears splashing down her cheeks. "Reine!" Miss Langton cries, horrified. "Reine!" mimics the girl, provokingly.