, you ridiculous child!" she said. "You had no business to
listen to what I was saying to Jane. You shall paint me this autumn.
And after that I will give up facial massage, and go abroad, and come
back quite old."

She flung this last threat over her shoulder as she trailed away across
the lawn.

"How lovely she is!" commented Garth, gazing after her. "How much of
that was true, do you suppose, Miss Champion?"

"I have not the slightest idea," replied Jane. "I am completely
ignorant on the subject of facial massage."

"Not much, I should think," continued Garth, "or she would not have
told us."

"Ah, you are wrong there," replied Jane, quickly. "Myra is
extraordinarily honest, and always inclined to be frank about herself
and her foibles. She had a curious upbringing. She is one of a large
family, and was always considered the black sheep, not so much by her
brothers and sisters, as by her mother. Nothing she was, or said, or
did, was ever right. When Lord Ingleby met her, and I suppose saw her
incipient possibilities, she was a tall, gawky girl, with lovely eyes,
a sweet, sensitive mouth, and a what-on-earth-am-I-going-to-do-next
expression on her face. He was twenty years her senior, but fell most
determinedly in love with her and, though her mother pressed upon him
all her other daughters in turn, he would have Myra or nobody. When he
proposed to her it was impossible at first to make her understand what
he meant. His meaning dawned on her at length, and he was not kept
waiting long for her answer. I have often heard him tease her about it.
She looked at him with an adorable smile, her eyes brimming over with
tears, and said: 'Why, of course. I'll marry you GRATEFULLY, and I
think it is perfectly sweet of you to like me. But what a blow for
mamma!' They were married with as little delay as possible, and he took
her off to Paris, Italy, and Egypt, had six months abroad, and brought
her back--this! I was staying with them once, and her mother was also
there. We were sitting in the morning room,--no men, just half a dozen
women,--and her mother began finding fault about something, and said:
'Has not Lord Ingleby often told you of it?' Myra looked up in her
sweet, lazy way and answered: 'Dear mamma, I know it must seem strange
to you, but, do you know, my husband thinks everything I do perfect.'
'Your husband is a fool!' snapped her mother. 'From YOUR point of view,
dear mamma,' said Myra, sweetly."

"Old cu