are a fig about poor Olive's ideas; it's only because Verena has
strange hair, and shiny eyes, and gets herself up like a
prestidigitator's assistant. I have never understood how Olive can
reconcile herself to Verena's really low style of dress. I suppose it's
only because her clothes are so fearfully made. You look as if you
didn't believe me--but I assure you that the cut is revolutionary; and
that's a salve to Olive's conscience."

Ransom was surprised to hear that he looked as if he didn't believe her,
for he had found himself, after his first uneasiness, listening with
considerable interest to her account of the circumstances under which
Miss Tarrant was visiting New York. After a moment, as the result of
some private reflexion, he propounded this question: "Is the son of the
lady of the house a handsome young man, very polite, in a white vest?"

"I don't know the colour of his vest--but he has a kind of fawning
manner. Verena judges from that that he is in love with her."

"Perhaps he is," said Ransom. "You say it was his idea to get her to
come on."

"Oh, he likes to flirt; that is highly probable."

"Perhaps she has brought him round."

"Not to where she wants, I think. The property is very large; he will
have it all one of these days."

"Do you mean she wishes to impose on him the yoke of matrimony?" Ransom
asked, with Southern languor.

"I believe she thinks matrimony an exploded superstition; but there is
here and there a case in which it is still the best thing; when the
gentleman's name happens to be Burrage and the young lady's Tarrant. I
don't admire 'Burrage' so much myself. But I think she would have
captured this present scion if it hadn't been for Olive. Olive stands
between them--she wants to keep her in the single sisterhood; to keep
her, above all, for herself. Of course she won't listen to her marrying,
and she has put a spoke in the wheel. She has brought her to New York;
that may seem against what I say; but the girl pulls hard, she has to
humour her, to give her her head sometimes, to throw something
overboard, in short, to save the rest. You may say, as regards Mr.
Burrage, that it's a queer taste in a gentleman; but there is no arguing
about that. It's queer taste in a lady, too; for she is a lady, poor
Olive. You can see that to-night. She is dressed like a book-agent, but
she is more distinguished than any one here. Verena, beside her, looks
like a walking advertisement."

When M