"I noticed you were wearing one other evenings," said Billy, the Artful, "so I thought——"
"You know whether this is yours or not, don't you, Clara?" interposed the mother.
"They all look alike," murmured Clara Eversham, eying helplessly the silver border.
Billy permitted himself to look at Miss Beecher. That young person was looking at him and there was a disconcerting gaiety in her expression, but at sight of him she turned her head, faintly coloring. He judged she recalled his unmannerly eavesdropping that afternoon.
"Pardon—excuse me—but that is to me belonging," panted an agitated but firm voice behind them, and two stout and beringed hands seized upon the glittering shawl in Miss Eversham's lax grasp. "It but just now off me falls," and the German lady looked belligerent accusation upon the defrauding Billy.
There was a round of apologetic murmurs, unacknowledged by the recipient, who plunged away with her shawl, as if fearing further designs upon it. Billy laughed down at the Evershams.
"I feel like a porch climber making off with her belongings. But I had seen you with——"
"I do think I had mine this evening, after all," murmured Clara, with a questioning glance after the departing one.
"An uncultured person!" stated Mrs. Eversham.
Miss Beecher said nothing at all. Her faint smile was mockingly derisive.