t much spirit of any kind, I imagine," said Beaton. "But she's
amiably material. Did they say Miss Dryfoos was seriously ill?"

"No. I supposed she might be prostrated by her brother's death."

"Does she seem that kind of person to you, Miss Vance?" asked Beaton.

"I don't know. I haven't tried to see so much of them as I might, the
past winter. I was not sure about her when I met her; I've never seen
much of people, except in my own set, and the--very poor. I have been
afraid I didn't understand her. She may have a kind of pride that would
not let her do herself justice."

Beaton felt the unconscious dislike in the endeavor of praise. "Then she
seems to you like a person whose life--its trials, its chances--would
make more of than she is now?"

"I didn't say that. I can't judge of her at all; but where we don't
know, don't you think we ought to imagine the best?"

"Oh yes," said Beaton. "I didn't know but what I once said of them
might have prejudiced you against them. I have accused myself of it."
He always took a tone of conscientiousness, of self-censure, in talking
with Miss Vance; he could not help it.

"Oh no. And I never allowed myself to form any judgment of her. She is
very pretty, don't you think, in a kind of way?"

"Very."

"She has a beautiful brunette coloring: that floury white and the
delicate pink in it. Her eyes are beautiful."

"She's graceful, too," said Beaton. "I've tried her in color; but I
didn't make it out."

"I've wondered sometimes," said Miss Vance, "whether that elusive
quality you find in some people you try to paint doesn't characterize
them all through. Miss Dryfoos might be ever so much finer and better
than we would find out in the society way that seems the only way."

"Perhaps," said Beaton, gloomily; and he went away profoundly
discouraged by this last analysis of Christine's character. The angelic
imperviousness of Miss Vance to properties of which his own wickedness
was so keenly aware in Christine might have made him laugh, if it had
not been such a serious affair with him. As it was, he smiled to think
how very differently Alma Leighton would have judged her from Miss
Vance's premises. He liked that clear vision of Alma's even when it
pierced his own disguises. Yes, that was the light he had let die out,
and it might have shone upon his path through life. Beaton never felt so
poignantly the disadvantage of having on any given occasion been wanting
to his own inter