Doctor Danton looked out. Mr. Stanford was sauntering down the avenue, a fishing-rod over his shoulder, and his bride-elect on his arm.
"Altered! How?"
"I don't know how," said Grace, "but he has altered. There is something changed about him; I don't know what. I don't think he is settled in his mind."
"My dear Grace, what are you talking about? Not settled in his mind! A man who is about to marry the handsomest girl in North America?"
"I don't care for that. I wouldn't trust Mr. Reginald Stanford as far as I could see him."
"You wouldn't? But then you are an oddity, Grace. What do you suspect him of?"
"Never mind; my suspicions are my own. One thing I am certain of—he is no more worthy to marry Kate Danton than I am to marry a prince."
"Nonsense! He is as handsome as Apollo, he sings, he dances, and talks divinely. Are you not a little severe, Grace?"
Grace closed her lips.
"We won't talk about it. What do you suppose is the matter with Rose?"