“Yes, it was Mr. Hemphill over there,” said the other, speaking very tranquilly, as if the subject were of no importance.  “You see, I have been living with the Easterfields for a long time, and in the winter we see a good deal of Mr. Hemphill.  He has to come to the house on business, and often takes meals.  He is Mr. Easterfield’s private and confidential secretary.  And, somehow or other, seeing him so often, and sometimes being his partner at cards when two were needed to make up a game, I forgot that I was older than he, and I actually fell in love with him.  You see he has a good heart, Miss Asher; anybody could tell that from his way with children; and I have noticed that bachelors are often nicer with children than fathers are.”

“And he?” asked Olive.

Miss Raleigh laughed a little laugh.  “Oh, I did all the loving,” she answered.  “He never reciprocated the least little bit, and I often wondered why I adored him as much as I did.  He was handsome, and he was good, and he had excellent taste; he was thoroughly trustworthy in his relations to the family, and I believe he would be equally so in all relations of life; but all that did not account for my unconquerable ardor, which was caused by a certain something which you know, Miss Asher, we can’t explain.”

Olive tried hard not to allow any emotion to show itself in her face, but she did not altogether succeed.  “And you still—­” said she.

“No, I don’t,” interrupted Miss Raleigh.  “I love him no longer.  There came a time when all my fire froze.  I discovered that there was—­”

“I say, Miss Asher—­” it was the voice of Claude Locker.

Olive looked around at him.  “Well?” said she.

“Perhaps you have not noticed,” said he, “that the tennis ground is now in the shade, and if you don’t mind walking that way—­” He said a good deal more which Miss Raleigh did not believe, understanding the young man thoroughly, and which Olive did not hear.  Her mind was very busy with what she had just heard, which made a great impression on her.  She did not know whether she was affronted, or hurt, or merely startled.

Here was a man who loved her, a man she had loved, and one about whom she had been questioning herself as to the possibility of her loving him again.  And here was a woman, a dyspeptic, unwholesome spinster, who had just said she had loved him.  If Miss Raleigh had loved this man, how could she, Olive, love him?  There was something repugnant about it which she did not attempt to understand.  It went beyond reason.  She felt it to be an actual relief to look up at Claude Locker, and to listen to what he was saying.

“You mean,” said she presently, “that you would like Miss Raleigh and me to come with you and play tennis.”

“I did not know Miss Raleigh played,” he answered, “but I thought perhaps—­”

“Oh, no,” said Olive.  “I would not think of such a thing.  In fact, Miss Raleigh and I are engaged.  We are very busy about some important work.”