“Has she always had these peculiar ways?” I asked with interest.

“Well, I always thought her an imaginative, fanciful sort of girl, but she has certainly been much worse since that poor fellow’s death.  What, you never heard the story?  It was at a picnic, and she insisted upon his climbing some rocks to get her a certain flower, just for the sake of giving trouble, as girls do.  The poor lad’s foot slipped, and he rolled right over a precipice and was dashed to pieces.  Of course it was a shocking thing, but it’s a pity she became so morbid about it, as no real blame attached to her.  Now I must not talk too much or the doctor will say I have tired you; so good-bye for the present.”

And that was the last I heard of Irene Latouche.