mpany, that his
masculine vanity occasionally rebelled. A little flirt!--that gave
herself airs. It startled his English mind that at twenty--for she could
be no more--a girl should so take the floor, and hold the stage.
Sometimes he turned his back upon her--almost; and Cecilia Boyson held
him. But, if there was too much of the "eternal womanly" in Miss Floyd,
there was not enough in Cecilia Boyson. He began to discover also that
she was too clever for him, and was in fact talking down to him. Some of
the things that she said to him about New York and Washington puzzled
him extremely. She was, he supposed, intellectual; but the intellectual
women in England did not talk in the same way. He was equal to them, or
flattered himself that he was; but Miss Boyson was beyond him. He was
getting into great difficulties with her, when suddenly Miss Floyd
addressed him:

"I am sure I saw you in New York, at the opera?"

She bent over to him as she spoke, and lowered her voice. Her look was
merry, perhaps a little satirical. It put him on his guard.

"Yes, I was there. You were pointed out to me."

"You were with some old friends of mine. I suppose they gave you an
account of me?"

"They were beginning it; but then Melba began to sing, and some horrid
people in the next box said 'Hush!'"

She studied him in a laughing silence a moment, her chin on her hand,
then said:

"That is the worst of the opera; it stops so much interesting
conversation."

"You don't care for the music?"

"Oh, I am a musician!" she said quickly. "I teach it. But I am like the
mad King of Bavaria--I want an opera-house to myself."

"You teach it?" he said, in amazement.

She nodded, smiling. At that moment a bell rang. Captain Boyson rose.

"That's the signal for closing. I think we ought to be moving up."

They strolled slowly towards the house, watching the stream of
excursionists pour out of the house and gardens, and wind down the hill;
sounds of talk and laughter filled the air, and the western sun touched
the spring hats and dresses.

"The holidays end to-morrow," said Daphne Floyd demurely, as she walked
beside young Barnes. And she looked smiling at the crowd of young women,
as though claiming solidarity with them.

A teacher? A teacher of music?--with that self-confidence--that air as
though the world belonged to her! The young man was greatly mystified.
But he reminded himself that he was in a democratic country where all
men--a