"He's not a monster, child: he's just a man.—And now, Unity, I am making damson preserves to-day."
"I'll go," said Unity, rising. "But they believe these things at Fontenoy."
"Do they believe them at Greenwood?"
"I don't know. Ludwell Cary is still away—"
"When are you going to marry his brother?"
"Why, I don't know that I am going to marry his brother at all," answered Unity, her foot upon the coach step. "Good-bye, Cousin Jane. I wish I could make pot-pourri like yours."
"You must know what spices to use, and when to gather the roses," said Cousin Jane. "Good-bye, child! You read too many romances, but you're a loyal soul and one of your gowns is prettier than another. Don't you believe all the world says of Lewis Rand. It's mighty prone to make mistakes. The man's just a sinner like the rest of us."
At Fontenoy, that September afternoon, Fairfax Cary, riding over from Greenwood, found Miss Dandridge seated upon the steps which ran down to the garden from the glass doors of the library. Her chin was in her hands, and her black eyes were suspiciously bright. "You were crying," exclaimed the younger Cary. "Why?"
"I've been reading about the Capulets and the Montagues."
"You are not one to cry for the dead," said the young man. "Tell me truly."