t of nightshade and tube-roses combined. Now tell me about
yourself: how comes on the quarrel with the Llama?"

"I hardly know."

"I saw you stealing away in your white lace with Gregory Dexter this
evening," pursued Helen. "He was as agreeable as ever this morning.
However, there it is again; just before six, Nightshade strolled off
toward the ravine 'to see the sunset' (one sees the sunset so well from
there, you know, facing the east), and Dexter seemed also to have
forgotten the points of the compass, for--he followed her."

"Then it was Mrs. Bannert," said Anne, half unconsciously.

"It is always Mrs. Bannert. I do not in the least know what you mean,
but--it is always Mrs. Bannert. What did he say about her?"

"Of course I can not tell you, Helen. But--I really thought it was you."

"What should _I_ have to do with it? How you play at cross-purposes,
Crystal! Is it possible that during all this time you have not
discovered how infatuated our Gregory is with Rachel? Ward is only
amusing himself; but Gregory is, in one sense, carried away. However, I
doubt if it lasts, and I really think he has a warm regard for you, a
serious one. It is a pity you could not--"

Anne stopped the sentence with a gesture.

"Yes, I see that little ring," said Helen. "But the world is a puzzle,
and we often follow several paths before we find the right one. How cold
your hands are! The nights are no longer like summer, and the moon is
Medusa. The autumn moon is a cruel moon always, reminding us of the
broken hopes and promises of the lost summer. I must go, Crystal. You
are pale and weary; the summer with the Llama has been too hard. I
believe you will be glad to be safely back at Moreau's again. But I can
not come over now and tell you romances, can I? You know the personages,
and the charm will be gone. To-morrow I am going to ride. You have not
seen me in my habit? I assure you even a mermaid can not compare with
me. Do you know, I should be happy for life if I could but induce Rachel
to show herself once on horseback by my side: on horseback Rachel
looks--excuse the word, but it expresses it--sploshy. The trouble is
that she knows it, and will not go; she prefers moonlight, a piazza,
and sylphide roses in her hair, with the background of fluffy white
shawl."

Then, with a little more light nonsense, Helen went away--went at last.
Anne bolted the door, threw herself down upon her knees beside the bed,
with her arms stretche