fall.

It was not in one day that Gerard had come to understand this in its
fullness; he had learned bit by bit. For there was nothing at all
angelic about the gay family. But now he first realized, as he watched
Corrie, that Isabel Rose was placed here by circumstance and not by
fittedness. She was too earthen a vessel, however handsome and
wholesome, to contain that fine sun-shot essence distilled from the
fountain of youth which her cousin poured out for her taking. Gerard
knew it, as he saw her matter-of-fact acceptance of the gaze that should
have moved even a woman who did not love Corrie.

Yet, they would probably marry one another, he reflected. There was
nothing to interfere, if she consented. He felt an elder brother's
outrush of impatient protection for the boy; involuntarily he turned to
Flavia with a movement of regretful irritation at the folly of it all, a
folly he divined that she also recognized.

Flavia met his glance, and read its impatience and regret. How she
applied it was a reflection less of her own mind than of Isabel's; she
fancied Gerard jealous of this open wooing of the other girl, and mutely
asking her own intervention.

That intervention was not easy to give. In spite of herself, the days
with Allan Gerard had affected her so far. Stooping, she lifted Firdousi
to her lap, gaining a moment before breaking the silence that had fallen
upon the group.

"Where are you going to take Mr. Gerard, Corrie?" she inquired. "Are not
the possibilities storm-limited?"

"He isn't going to take him anywhere," Isabel calmly interpolated. "They
are going to stay in and amuse us. At least, that is what I say, if he
is going to stand for it. He said he would, but it's some large order."

Corrie threw back his head, all seriousness vanishing before his
laughter.

"Just you let father catch you slinging Boweryese like that, Miss Rose,"
he begged, moving aside to stuff a handful of candy into either
coat-pocket. "He loves to hear girls talk slang. But it _is_ some classy
order, all right, if you come to think of it; I guess I won't commence
to-day. I'm going over to show the _Dear Me_ to Jack Rupert, Flavia; he
thinks he can tell me why her engine misses."

"In the rain, dear?" his sister wondered.

"'Snips and snails and gasoline tales, are what little boys are made
of,'" Isabel quoted derisive _Mother Goose_. "He won't melt; let him
go. Mr. Gerard, you do not want to go out in a sloppy motor boat, d