"Do you know," he said, "I once had a little friend called Gipsy? Your words recalled her to my memory. You remind me of her, somehow, only you are handsomer. She was dark and ugly."
"Indeed! Did you like her?"
"Ye-e-e-s—a little," said Archie, hesitatingly; "she was a half-crazy little thing—black as a squaw, and I don't think I was very fond of her, but she was very fond of me."
"Indeed, sir!" said the young lady, a momentary flash gleaming from her dark eyes; "she must have been a bold girl, rather, to let you know it."
"She was bold—the boldest girl ever I knew, with nothing gentle and womanly about her whatever."
"What did you say her name was?"
"Gipsy—Gipsy Gower. You seem interested in her."
"I am, sir—I know her."
"You do?" cried Archie, aghast.
"Yes, sir; but I like her no more than you do. She was a rough, uncouth savage, detested by every one who knew her. I had the misfortune to be her room-mate in school, and she used to bore me dreadfully talking about her gawky country friends, particularly some one whom she called Archie."