” The lady stood away from the door. “My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house. She laughed a little contemptuously. "You are no longer Thames Darrell," she said, casting her eyes rapidly over it; "but the Marquis de Chatillon. " "Didn't the natives have a name for you?" She blushed. ” “Never for a second. Stanley as they drew alongside, to account for his own ruffled and heated expression. And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. ’ She flounced back to stare out of the window again. Diable. Sheppard. You should have more. Besides, he was a Yale man. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. As a matter of fact it isn’t their affair.
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