“Please don’t rob us of our poor little halos, Mr. Canby,” she said.  “Do you mean that there have been other women, girls—­in here before?”

I can’t imagine why Jerry hadn’t told her that.  She seemed to know about everything else.  “Yes, one.”

“Jerry!” reproachfully.  “And you said I was the first girl you’d ever really known!”

He smiled, though he was quite pink around the ears.

“You are really.  Er—­she didn’t count.”

“I shall die of chagrin.  Her name, Mr. Canby,” she appealed.

I hesitated.  But Jerry, still red, blurted out: 

“Una Smith.  But Roger says that couldn’t have been her name.”

“But why shouldn’t it be her name?  She had nothing to be ashamed about, had she?”

“Of course not.  She just slipped in through a broken grille.  She was a stranger around here—­I just happened to meet her and—­er—­we had a talk.”

The boy seemed to be quite ill at ease.  What did he already owe this girl Marcia that such an innocent confession made him uncomfortable?

“Una—­Una—­Smith,” the girl was repeating.  “This is really beginning to be fearfully interesting.  Una,” she turned quickly, her eyes widening.  In the bright sunlight they seemed very light in color, a dark gray shot with little flecks of yellow.  “Of course,” she exclaimed.  And then, “When was this—­er—­intrusion, Jerry?  Last July?”

“I think so.”

It was Jerry’s turn to be surprised.

“She was brown-haired, smallish, with blue eyes?  Quite pretty?”

Jerry nodded.

“Wore leather gaiters and carried a butterfly net?”

“You know her, Marcia?” he broke in.

“Of course.  Jerry, I’m really surprised—­also a trifle disillusioned—­”

They moved off down the path toward the lake, Jerry talking earnestly.  I watched them for a moment in silence, wondering what crisis I had precipitated in Jerry’s affairs.

Beside me I heard the deep voice of Miss Gore.

“You see?  He’s already madly infatuated with her.”

“Yes, yes,” I replied, still watching them.  “And she?”

Miss Gore shrugged her thin shoulders.

“I don’t know.  She won’t marry him.  I doubt if she will ever marry.”

“Thank God for that,” I said feelingly.  She looked up at me quickly.

“You don’t like Marcia?” she asked.

“No.”  I realized that I had gone too far, but I stood firm to my guns.

I was surprised that she didn’t resent my frankness.  Instead of being angry she merely smiled.

“Mr. Canby, it is difficult for many of us who live in the world to realize the effect of luxury and over-refinement upon society!  We live too close to it.  Mr. Benham is an anachronism.  I would have given much if he had not become interested in Marcia.  She is not for him nor he for her.  But I think it is his mind that attracts her—­”