ognize this. She was a tall, pale woman, with a coldly formal
manner and some taste in dress.

There were several other guests in the house, and the party spent most
of the hot afternoon about the tennis net and lounging under the
shadow of a big copper beech on the lawn. Once when Miss Weston left
her to play in a set at tennis, Arabella Kinnaird leaned over the back
of Ida's chair.

"You seem to have made rather a favorable impression upon Julia
Weston, and, as a rule, she's unapproachable," she said, with a
mischievous smile.

Ida's eyebrows straightened, which, to those acquainted with her, was
a rather ominous sign.

"Won't you keep that woman away from me?" she begged. "I don't want to
be rude, but if I see very much more of her, I may not be able to help
it. In one way, I'm sorry I met her. You're not all like that."

"Well," said Arabella, "perhaps it is a pity. There really are some of
us to whom you could talk without having your pet illusions about the
old country shattered. In fact, I can think of one or two women about
here who would strengthen them. Can't you, Mr. Ainslie?"

Ainslie, who was standing near them, smiled.

"Oh, yes," he said. "Unfortunately, however, they are, as a rule,
retiring. It's the other kind that is usually in evidence. Do you feel
very badly disappointed with us, Miss Stirling?"

"No," replied Ida, with a thoughtfulness which brought the smile more
plainly into his eyes. "In fact, I want to think well of you. It's a
thing we wouldn't quite admit, but at bottom I believe we all do."

Then she turned to Arabella.

"By the way, what has become of Mr. Weston?"

"He is shut up with my father in the library; and there are reasons
for supposing that his business requires the consumption of a
considerable quantity of soda and whisky. The major, I am afraid, will
be a trifle difficult to get on with this evening. As a matter of
fact, he isn't used to it, though he was, one understands, rather
popular at the mess table. That's a trifle significant, considering
what is said about us, isn't it, Mr. Ainslie?"

"Ah," said Ainslie, "we're a maligned people; and the pity of it is
that it's our own people who give us away. You don't believe in doing
that in the Colonies?"

"No," laughed Ida, "we are rather fond of making it clear that we are
quite above the average as a people. However, it's excusable, perhaps,
for, after all, there's a germ of truth in it. I think Miss Kinnaird
wil