inued a little differently, though as
if she hadn't heard my question: "I hoped you were too disgusted with
us--after the way we left you planted."

"It was disconcerting assuredly, and it might have served if Linda
hadn't written. That patched it up," I gaily professed. But my gaiety
was thin, for I was still amazed at her violence of a moment before. "Do
you really mean that she won't do?" I added.

She made no direct answer; she only said after a little that it didn't
matter whether the crisis should come a few weeks sooner or a few weeks
later, since it was destined to come at the first chance, the favouring
moment. Linda had marked my young man--and when Linda had marked a
thing!

"Bless my soul--how very grim--" But I didn't understand. "Do you mean
she's in love with him?"

"It's enough if she makes him think so--though even that isn't
essential."

Still I was at sea. "If she makes him think so? Dear old friend, what's
your idea? I've observed her, I've watched her, and when all's said what
has she done? She has been civil and pleasant to him, but it would have
been much more marked if she hadn't. She has really shown him, with her
youth and her natural charm, nothing more than common friendliness. Her
note was nothing; he let me see it."

"I don't think you've heard every word she has said to him," Mrs.
Pallant returned with an emphasis that still struck me as perverse.

"No more have you, I take it!" I promptly cried. She evidently meant
more than she said; but if this excited my curiosity it also moved, in a
different connexion, my indulgence.

"No, but I know my own daughter. She's a most remarkable young woman."

"You've an extraordinary tone about her," I declared "such a tone as
I think I've never before heard on a mother's lips. I've had the same
impression from you--that of a disposition to 'give her away,' but never
yet so strong."

At this Mrs. Pallant got up; she stood there looking down at me. "You
make my reparation--my expiation--difficult!" And leaving me still more
astonished she moved along the terrace.

I overtook her presently and repeated her words. "Your reparation--your
expiation? What on earth are you talking about?"

"You know perfectly what I mean--it's too magnanimous of you to pretend
you don't."

"Well, at any rate," I said, "I don't see what good it does me, or what
it makes up to me for, that you should abuse your daughter."

"Oh I don't care; I shall save him!" sh