Mr. Du Brant walked thoughtfully away.  “I do not understand,” he said to himself in French, “why she did not tell me I need not speak to her again about it.  The situation is worthy of diplomatic consideration, and I will give it that.”

From a distance Claude Locker beheld his Austrian enemy walking alone, and without a book.

“Something has happened,” he thought, “and the fellow has changed his tactics.  Before, under cover of a French novel, he was a snake in the grass, now he is a snake hopping along on the tip of his tail.  Perhaps he thinks this is a better way to keep a lookout upon her.  I believe he is more dangerous than he was before, for I don’t know whether a snake on tip tail jumps or falls down upon his victims.”

One thing Mr. Locker was firmly determined upon.  He was going to try to see Olive as soon as it was possible before luncheon, and impress upon her the ardent nature of his feelings toward her; he did not believe he had done this yet.  He looked about him.  The party, excepting himself and Mr. Du Brant, were on the front lawn; he would join them and satirize the gloomy Austrian.  If Olive could be made to laugh at him it would be like preparing a garden-bed with spade and rake before sowing his seeds.

The rural mail-carrier came earlier than usual that day, and he brought Olive but one letter, but as it was from her father, she was entirely satisfied, and retired to a bench to read it.

In about ten minutes after that she walked into Mrs. Easterfield’s little room, the open letter in her hand.  As Mrs. Easterfield looked up from her writing-table the girl seemed transformed; she was taller, she was straighter, her face had lost its bloom, and her eyes blazed.

“Would you believe it!” she said, grating out the words as she spoke.  “My father is going to be married!”

Mrs. Easterfield dropped her pen, and her face lost color.  She had always been greatly interested in Lieutenant Asher.  “What!” she exclaimed.  “He?  And to whom?”

“A girl I used to go to school with,” said Olive, standing as if she were framed in one solid piece.  “Edith Marshall, living in Geneva.  She is older than I am, but we were in the same classes.  They are to be married in October, and she is to sail for this country about the time his ship comes home.  He is to be stationed at Governor’s Island, and they are to have a house there.  He writes, and writes, and writes, about how lovely it will be for me to have this dear new mother.  Me!  To call that thing mother!  I shall have no mother, but I have lost my father.”  With this she threw herself upon a lounge, and burst into passionate tears.  Mrs. Easterfield rose, and closed the door.