had never, with all her candour, the air of making
confidences. It hurt Althea a little, and yet was part of the
allurement, to see that she was, probably, too indifferent to be
reticent. Lying on her pillows, a cigarette--all too frequently, Althea
considered--between her lips, and her hair wound in a heavy wreath upon
her head, she would listen pleasantly, and as pleasantly reply; and
Althea could not tell whether it was because she really found it
pleasant to talk and be talked to, or whether, since she had nothing
better to do, she merely showed good manners. Althea was sensitive to
every shade in manners, and was sure that Miss Buchanan, however great
her tact might be, did not find her a bore; yet she could not be at all
sure that she found her interesting, and this disconcerted her.
Sometimes the suspicion of it made her feel humble, and sometimes it
made her feel a little angry, for she was not accustomed to being found
uninteresting. She herself, however, was interested; and it was when she
most frankly owned to this, laying both anger and humility aside, that
she was happiest in the presence of her new acquaintance. She liked to
talk to her, and she liked to make her talk. From these conversations
she was soon able to build up a picture of Miss Buchanan's life. She
came of an old Scotch family, and she had spent her childhood and
girlhood in an old Scotch house. This house, Althea was sure, she really
did enjoy talking about. She described it to Althea: the way the rooms
lay, and the passages ran, and the queer old stairs climbed up and down.
She described the ghost that she herself had seen once--her
matter-of-fact acceptance of the ghost startled Althea--and the hills
and moors that one looked out on from the windows. Led by Althea's
absorbed inquiries, she drifted on to detailed reminiscence--the dogs
she had cared for, the flowers she had grown, and the dear red lacquer
mirror that she had broken. 'Papa did die that year,' she added, after
mentioning the incident.

'Surely you don't connect the two things,' said Althea, who felt some
remonstrance necessary. Miss Buchanan said no, she supposed not; it was
silly to be superstitious; yet she didn't like breaking mirrors.

Her brother lived in the house now. He had married some one she didn't
much care about, though she did not enlarge on this dislike. 'Nigel had
to marry money,' was all she said. 'He couldn't have kept the place
going if he hadn't. Jessie is