Up the street driving a pony-cart came Avice Milbrey. Obeying a quick impulse, Percival stepped to the curb as she came opposite to him. She pulled over. She was radiant in the fluffs of summer white, her hat and gown touched with bits of the same vivid blue that shone in her eyes. The impulse that had prompted him to hail her now prompted wild words. His long habit of thought concerning her enabled him to master this foolishness. But at least he could give her a friendly word of warning. She greeted him with the pretty reserve in her manner that had long marked her bearing toward him.
"Good-morning! I've borrowed this cart of Elsie Vainer to drive down to the yacht station for lost mail. Isn't the day perfect—and isn't this the dearest fat, sleepy pony, with his hair in his eyes?"
"Miss Milbrey, there's a woman who seems to be a friend of your family—a Mrs.—"
"Mrs. Wybert; yes, you know her?"
"No, I'd never seen her until last night, nor heard that name until this morning; but I know of her."
"Yes?"
"It became necessary just now—really, it is not fair of me to speak to you at all—"
"Why, pray?—not fair?"
"I had to tell your father and brother that we could not meet Mrs. Wybert, and couldn't know any one who received her."
"There! I knew the woman wasn't right directly I heard her speak. Surely a word to my father was enough."