“Oh, very well. There will be plenty of other beaus!” Juliette said, tossing her head and pretending to be indifferent. “Well, it is settled that we meet at the depot this evening, Mrs. Wylde?” “Yes,” replied the lady; and Juliette hurried home to make her arrangements, and to vent her spleen on Norman Wylde by saying to Pansy: “Norman Wylde won’t go because I have treated him so coldly, Rosalind says; but he may sulk all he chooses. I shall not make up with him in a hurry.” CHAPTER XXVII. “A MARRIED FLIRT.” When Pansy had left Norman Wylde, Mrs. Meade sat down on the seat she had vacated, and her face was very grave and thoughtful. It had appeared very strange to her to find Norman Wylde and the beautiful Mrs. Falconer alone in the park together, and seeming to be on very amicable terms with each other, whereas she had supposed them to be almost utter strangers. “Perhaps she is a flirt,” she thought suspiciously; and just then Norman Wylde turned his head, after watching Pansy until she disappeared, and said: “How does it happen that Mrs. Falconer and Pet are so well acquainted with each other?” The old housekeeper, who had known him ever since he was a little boy, answered dryly: “Mr. Norman, I was just going to ask the same question about yourself and Mrs. Falconer.” He smiled at first, then flushed a dark red at her searching glance, and answered: “But I do not know Mrs. Falconer very well. I have never met her but once or twice until she came down this path, quite by accident, a while ago, and I invited her to rest a few minutes--she looked so tired and warm.” “I was afraid she was one of them married flirts that’s getting so fashionable nowadays,” muttered Mrs. Meade. “A married flirt! No, indeed! I believe Mrs. Falconer is as pure and sweet and shy as a child. She is so much like one I knew years ago that she could not be otherwise,” exclaimed Norman Wylde earnestly, as he fondled Pet, who had crept to his knee, thus consoling himself for the departure of his “pretty yady.” Mrs. Meade looked up, all eager interest. “Like some one you knew?” she exclaimed eagerly. “Yes,” he replied, with a heavy sigh, and the housekeeper asked coaxingly: “Would you mind telling me whom she looked like, Mr. Norman?” “Curiosity, thy name is woman!” he said, with a low laugh, half dreary amusement, half bitterness; then, with another sigh, he went on: “Mrs. Meade, I suppose you know all about my unfortunate love affair of three years ago?” She nodded, and then he said: “This beautiful Mrs. Falconer is the image of the girl I loved, and from whom my parents parted me. She committed suicide by drowning within a year after I went away, you remember?” “Ah!” exclaimed the old housekeeper, and her face began to glow with excitement. “Mr. Norman, are you sure she drowned herself?” she asked eagerly. “Sure!” he repeated, turning toward her, with wondering eyes. “Why, what do you mean, Mrs. Meade?”