“Yes, rather; for I have been told that English girls are not very pretty; but she is wonderfully beautiful.”
“What will you wager that she does not turn out to be some lady of high degree?”
“Pshaw! Grace, you are always imagining some unlikely story or other. You should not read so many novels. Don’t put her entirely beyond our reach, if you please. It is quite enough for the present to know that she is Mr. Rosevelt’s heiress and the author of that charming little book, without being some princess in disguise,” returned the young man, somewhat impatiently.
“I think I shall like Miss Meredith,” Star said, musingly, to Mr. Rosevelt, when their visitors were gone.
“She appears to be a very agreeable young lady. I should like you to form some pleasant friendship,” the old gentleman returned; then, with a keen glance, he asked: “How are you pleased with her brother?”
“He is quite entertaining.”
“Very fine-looking young man; don’t you think so?”
“Is he?—yes—rather,” was the absent reply; for speaking of England had sent Star’s thoughts across the ocean again, where she saw in imagination a noble, patrician face, with dark, fathomless eyes, and curling chestnut hair; for Archibald Sherbrooke—she could never think of him in any other character—was her ideal of all that was manly and grand.
CHAPTER XXVI.
“WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?”
Newport was teeming with all that was gay, beautiful, and attractive during this particular season of which we write.