Afterward they went for a drive out on the shell road, which proved to be really delightful, for the city was in its prime, while, rain having fallen early in the day, the streets were not in the least dusty.

Mrs. Montague and Louis monopolized the conversation, thus leaving Mona free to look around about her.

The only thing that occurred to annoy her was on their return to the hotel.  Louis, in assisting her to alight, held her hand in a close, lingering clasp for a moment, and, looking admiringly into her eyes, remarked, in a low tone: 

“I hope you have enjoyed your drive, Miss—­Richards.”

What could he mean, Mona asked herself, by that significant pause before and that emphasis on her name?

She forcibly wrenched her hand from his, and deigning him no reply, walked with uplifted head into the hotel, and up to her own room.

The next day she politely, but firmly, declined to go out driving, and remained by herself to write a long letter to Ray; thus she avoided the hated companionship of the man, who became more and more odious to her.

The third evening after their arrival Mrs. Montague went to a concert with some people whose acquaintance she had made while on the steamer, and Mona congratulated herself that she could have a long quiet evening in which to read a book in which she had become deeply interested.

She had not a thought of being interrupted, for she supposed that Louis had accompanied his aunt, and she was sitting contentedly by the table in Mrs. Montague’s private parlor, when she heard the door behind her open and close.

She looked up surprised, but the expression was quickly succeeded by one of dismay when she saw Louis Hamblin advancing toward her.

She arose, regarding him with cold displeasure.

He bowed politely as he remarked: 

“Do not rise.  I simply came to get some letters that Aunt Margie wished me to mail for her.”

Mona resumed her seat, greatly relieved at this assurance, and went on with her reading, while the young man took up his aunt’s writing-pad, which lay upon the table, as if to search for the letters.

He took out a couple and slipped them into his pocket; then selecting a pen, began himself to write.

Mona felt very uncomfortable, sitting there alone with him, but she kept hoping that he would soon go out again, and so went on with her reading.

Presently, however, he laid down his pen, and, glancing across the table at her, asked: 

“What book have you that is so interesting?”

“The Senator’s Bride,’” Mona briefly responded.

“Ah!  I have never read it.  What do you think of it?”

“It is quite entertaining,” was the brief, cold reply.

“Pray, do not be so cold and proud—­so exceedingly laconic,” the young man said, with a smile, which was intended to be persuasive.