who thereupon sat firmly down upon the chair.  At this the General hovered heavily, looking at his daughter, who gave him no look in return, as she engaged in conversation with Juno; and presently the General left them.  Juno’s back and Hortense’s front, both entirely motionless as they interviewed each other’ presented a stiff appearance, with Juno half turned in her seat and Hortense’s glance following her slight movement; the two then rose, as the General came down the walk with two chairs and Mrs. Gregory and Mrs. Weguelin St. Michael.  Juno, with a bow to them, approached Hortense by a step or two, a brief touch of their fingers was to be seen, and Juno’s departure took place, attended by the heavy hovering of General Rieppe.

“That’s why!” I said to myself aloud, suddenly, at my open window.  Immediately, however, I added, “but can it be?” And in my mind a whole little edifice of reasons for Hortense’s apparent determination to marry John instantly fabricated itself—­and then fell down.

Through John she was triumphantly bringing stiff Kings Port to her, was forcing them to accept her.  But this was scarce enough temptation for Hortense to marry; she could do very well without Kings Port—­indeed, she was not very likely to show herself in it, save to remind them, now and then, that she was there, and that they could not keep her out any more; this might amuse her a little, but the society itself would not amuse her in the least.  What place had it for her to smoke her cigarettes in?

Eliza La Heu, then?  Spite?  The pleasure of taking something that somebody else wanted?  The pleasure of spoiling somebody else’s pleasure?  Or, more accurately, the pleasure of power?  Well, yes; that might be it, if Hortense Rieppe were younger in years, and younger, especially, in soul; but her museum was too richly furnished with specimens of the chase, she had collected too many bits and bibelots from life’s Hotel Druot and the great bazaar of female competition, to pay so great a price as marriage for merely John; particularly when a lady, even in Newport, can have but one husband at a time in her collection.  If she did actually love John, as Beverly Rodgers had reluctantly come to believe, it was most inappropriate in her!  Had I followed out the train of reasoning which lay coiled up inside the word inappropriate, I might have reached the solution which eventually Hortense herself gave me, and the jewelled recesses of her nature would have blazed still more brilliantly to my eyes to-day; but in truth, my soul wasn’t old enough yet to work Hortense out by itself, unaided!