However, she gave the young man food for further thought that same evening. Naturally the appearance of two more guests at the breakfast-table was a great surprise to Lisa, and she quite exulted at the thought that here was at least one devoted cavalier who would dance attendance upon her and thereby add to her pleasure. But, although Ned Carew was acceptable enough as a companion at a dance or a theatre-party, a whole morning passed in his society in the country proved to be something very different. The rest of the masculine element spent the day in getting the little yacht in better condition, and Lisa herself could but feel a small scorn for the only one of the party who declined to help.
She was sitting in a high-backed chair, with Ned in an attitude of devotion at her feet, when the workers returned for their mid-day meal. Lisa fancied there was a look of contempt in Maurice Danforth’s eyes as he passed them on the porch, and she flushed angrily. “He shall know what I think of him,” she said to herself. “The supercillious, didactic pedagogue! He is not the only one who has an ideal.”
“Oh, Lisa, you look like a floating cloud in that pink gown!” exclaimed Persis, in heartfelt admiration, as she noticed that Lisa had dressed with unusual care that evening. “How lovely you look!”
“Don’t!” cried out Lisa, sharply.
Persis looked surprised. Why wasn’t Lisa pleased? She always liked to be told that she looked lovely. And Persis followed her sister down the stairs with a puzzled look on her face.
It was after an early tea that Lisa found an opportunity to “pay back the pedagogue,” as she expressed it to herself. Most of the party had gone to see the damage done by an enormous oak-tree which had fallen some distance away, bringing down in its fall sundry other trees. Mr. Danforth came out from the house and leaned against one of the pillars of the porch, while he looked out upon the water, now blue and serene, showing no sign of yesterday’s storm.
Lisa, with her satellite, Ned Carew, placed herself within hearing distance, and skilfully brought the conversation around to the subject she wished to discuss.
“You want to know what kind of a man I admire?” she said, in her soft, clear tones. “Well, I can tell you the kind of a man I despise, and then you can judge. There is nothing more insufferable to me than a conceited man,—one who pretends to a mock humility, and yet sets himself up as a mentor; who imagines there is nothing good save as he approves of it; whose consummate egotism makes him lose sight of his own faults; who looks upon all women as frivolous butterflies or insipid nonentities.”
Poor Ned was looking at her in astonishment at this tirade. What had he done to provoke it? “Now, Miss Lisa,” he protested, “you know we’re not all that way. Now, I think a girl is a—a—perfect goddess. I just worship—a—the right kind of a girl.”
“Oh, you!” And in the scorn of her accent Lisa hoped the subject of her remarks might recognize that Ned was not the target.