of the house," said she, a little piqued. "Mrs.
Randolph is that. I give no orders now: everybody goes to papa. He says
I have governed too long, and that I must be a little girl again. It
seems so strange sometimes to have nobody consult me: I do nothing all
day long but enjoy myself."

"But I belong to the old regime," said I, "and to me you will always be
the chatelaine. I remember how you used to give orders to Mills and Mrs.
Black: I can still smell the aromatic odors of the store-room when we
used to make the weekly survey together, and can hear you talking
'horse' solemnly with the coachman down at the stables. I am not at all
sure if I shall like you so well as a gay young lady of pleasure, with
all your thoughts on your dresses and your lovers."

"As if I should ever think about my dresses or my lovers!" she replied
with deep disdain.

"What do you think about?"

"I think about papa," she rejoined, still indignantly: "I think about
your mother and you. I have a great many nice things to think about
without being taken up with those horrid subjects."

"'Horrid subjects'! Good gracious!" I exclaimed: "I intend some day to
be somebody's lover: shall I be a 'horrid subject'?"

She laughed frankly, a delightful girlish laugh which showed her little
pearly teeth. "It depends on how you behave," she said with a little
nod. "Georgy Lenox has lovers: she tells me about them, and I think them
horrid."

"Do they come to the house here?"

"Oh yes. One is a stout man with a red face. He wears a solitaire
diamond in his necktie. Papa knows him: he was in Congress, and his name
is Judge Talbot. Then there is a young man--not so young as you, but
still young. He remembers you: he used to be in Belfield. He is Mr.
Thorpe."

"Tony Thorpe here? What unlikely people I come across! Which is Miss
Lenox's favorite admirer?"

"As if she would have favorites among such admirers! Georgy is the most
beautiful girl in the world. Papa is not fond of her, but even he says
she is a superb creature. Why does nobody like Georgy? Papa does not,
and I am sure Mrs. Randolph does not, nor do you. Yet she is so
beautiful, so winning, so clever!"

"You don't need to pity her for not gaining love," said I gravely. "My
mother may not like her, because she knew her as a faulty child who did
considerable mischief first and last; and Mr. Floyd dislikes her
because--You know why he dislikes her, Helen. But many people love her:
I think few