“Then this morning just before sunrise he came into my bedroom, hair and moustache on end, and in full uniform, and attempted to read the Declaration of Independence to me—­or maybe it was the Constitution—­I don’t remember—­but I began to cry, and that always sends him off.”

Ailsa’s quick laugh and the tenderness of her expression were her only comments upon the doings of Josiah Lent, lately captain, United States dragoons.

Camilla yawned again, rose, and, arranging her spreading white skirts, seated herself on her veranda steps in full sunshine.

“We did have a nice party, didn’t we, Ailsa?” she said, leaning a little sideways so that she could see over the fence and down into the Craig’s backyard garden.

“I had such a good time,” responded Ailsa, looking up radiantly.

“So did I. Billy Cortlandt is the most divine dancer.  Isn’t Evelyn Estcourt pretty?”

“She is growing up to be very beautiful some day.  Stephen paid her a great deal of attention.  Did you notice it?”

“Really?  I didn’t notice it,” replied Camilla without enthusiasm.  “But,” she added, “I did notice you and Phil Berkley on the stairs.  It didn’t take you long, did it?”

Ailsa’s colour rose a trifle.

“We exchanged scarcely a dozen words,” she observed sedately.

Camilla laughed.

“It didn’t take you long,” she repeated, “either of you.  It was the swiftest case of fascination that I ever saw.”

“You are absurd, Camilla.”

“But isn’t he perfectly fascinating?  I think he is the most romantic-looking creature I ever saw.  However,” she added, folding her slender hands in resignation, “there is nothing else to him.  He’s accustomed to being adored; there’s no heart left in him.  I think it’s dead.”

Mrs. Paige stood looking up at her, trowel hanging loosely in her gloved hand.

“Did anything—­kill it?” she asked carelessly.

“I don’t think it ever lived very long.  Anyway there is something missing in the man; something blank in him.  A girl’s time is wasted in wondering what is going on behind those adorable eyes of his.  Because there is nothing going on—­it’s all on the surface—­the charm, the man’s engaging ways and manners—­all surface. . . .  I thought I’d better tell you, Ailsa.”

“There was no necessity,” said Ailsa calmly.  “We scarcely exchanged a dozen words.”

As she spoke she became aware of a shape behind the veranda windows, a man’s upright figure passing and repassing.  And now, at the open window, it suddenly emerged into full sunlight, a spare, sinewy, active gentleman of fifty, hair and moustache thickly white, a deep seam furrowing his forehead from the left ear to the roots of the hair above the right temple.

The most engaging of smiles parted the young widow’s lips.

“Good morning, Captain Lent,” she cried gaily.  “You have neglected me dreadfully of late.”