"Quarreling as usual," says a clear, sweetly modulated voice, and both turn with a start.
A tall, imperially stately woman has come sauntering down the path from the house. You think of Tennyson's description:
"A daughter of the gods, divinely tall.
And most divinely fair."
Vane Charteris' face lights with languid pleasure. It is Maud Langton, his betrothed. This very night she is to be his bride.
"Ah, Maud," he says, "I am glad you are come. Perhaps you will deliver me from this little vixen!"
There is a grave, far-away look in the light blue eyes of the bride-elect. She looks at Reine, not at her lover, as she answers lightly:
"It is very undignified to call names, Vane, and how often have I told you, Reine, that you must bridle that sharp tongue of yours?"
"He began it," mutters Reine, with a childish petulance.
"You should have known better than to tease the child, Vane," says Miss Langton. "If you are in fault, you must apologize, of course."