letter-writing?" I made out to answer calmly.

"Were you not hard at work penning a missive to some happy soul who
enjoys your confidence?"

"Why do you believe I was?" I asked.

She tossed her head airily. "Oh! for that matter, I could even tell you
what you wrote: 'Nothing remarkable; the Hon. Elsin Grey still keeps
her chamber'--did you not write that?"

She paused, the smile fading from her face. Perhaps she thought she had
gone too far, perhaps something in my expression startled her.

"I beg your pardon," she said quickly; "have I hurt you, Mr. Renault?"

"How did you know I wrote that?" I asked in a voice I hoped was steady.

"Why, it is there on your shirt, Mr. Renault, imprinted backward from
the wet ink. I have amused myself by studying it out letter by letter.
Please forgive me--it was dreadfully indiscreet--but I only meant to
torment you."

I looked down, taking my fine lawn shirt in both hands. There was the
impression--my own writing, backward, but distinct. I remembered when I
had done it, when I had gathered my ink-wet papers under my arms and
leaned forward to listen to the creaking of the attic stairway. Suppose
it had been Sir Peter! Suppose the imprint had been something that
could have admitted of but one interpretation? I turned cold at the
thought.

She was watching me all the while, a trifle uneasy at my silence, but
my smile and manner reassured her, and my gaiety she met instantly.

"I am overwhelmed," I said, "and can offer no excuse for this frowsy
dress. If you had any idea how mortified I am you would have mercy on
me."

"My hair not being dressed a l'Iroquois, I consent to show you mercy,"
she said. "But you came monstrous near frightening me, too. Do you know
you turned white, Mr. Renault? Lud! the vanity of men, to pale at a
jest touching their status in fopdom as proper macaroni!"

"I do love to appear well," I said resentfully.

"Now do you expect me to assure you that you _do_ appear well? that even
the dress of a ragged forest-runner would detract nothing from your
person? Ah, I shall say nothing of the sort, Mr. Renault! Doubtless
there are women a-plenty in New York to flatter you."

"No," I said; "they prefer scarlet coats and spurs, as you will, too."

"No doubt," she said, turning her head to the sunset.

There was enough wind to flutter the ribbons on her shoulders and bare
neck, and to stir the tendrils of her powdered hair, a light breeze
blowing steadily