"She's a wonderful girl," remarked Ford.
"Wonderful? Why wonderful is no name for it," declared Stratton, lighting a cigar at one of the piano candles. "She is extraordinary."
"I tell Nellie, sometimes, that I shall get jealous of her, Harry gets quite excited over her virtues, and thinks she has no faults, while poor I am continually offending the consistencies."
"Who is Nellie?" enquired the ugly little man, turning round suddenly from the book case which he had been industriously ransacking.
"I like Geisner," observed Mrs. Stratton, pointing at the little man. "He sees everything, he hears everything, he makes himself at home, and when he wants to know anything he asks a straightforward question. I think you've met her, though, Geisner."
"Perhaps. What is her other name?"
"Lawton—Nellie Lawton. She came here once or twice when you were here before, I think, and for the last year or so she's been our—our— what do you call it, Harry? You know—the thing that South Sea Islanders think is the soul of a chief."
"You're ahead of me, Connie. But it doesn't matter; go on."
"There's nothing to go on about. You ought to recollect her, Geisner. I'm sure you met her here."
"I think I do. Wasn't she a tall, between-colours girl, quite young, with a sad face and queer stern mouth—a trifle cruel, the mouth, if I recollect. She used to sit across there by the piano, in a plain black dress, and no colour at all except one of your roses."