"I will tell you. I was in Macy's one day when the girl ran across some acquaintances. She bowed and smiled to them, as I suppose she had always been in the habit of doing; but the petted darlings of le bon ton drew themselves up haughtily, stared rudely at her, and passed on, while the poor child flushed, then paled, and looked ready to drop. A moment later, the two proud misses shot by me, one of them remarking with curling lips and a toss of her head, 'Do you suppose that Mona Montague expects that we are going to recognize her now?'"
"Why didn't you tell me this before?" Mrs. Montague angrily demanded.
"Because I knew that, if you suspected her identity, you would turn her out of the house forthwith, and then I should have hard work getting into her good graces."
"You are a sly one, Louis."
"One must look out for one's own interests in some respects," he coolly responded.
"Does she know that you suspect her identity?"
"No, not yet; but I mean she soon shall."
"Ah!" said Mrs. Montague, with sudden thought, "maybe you can use this knowledge to aid your suit—only don't let her know that I am in the secret until you are sure of her."
"That has been my intention all along—for I have meant to marry her, by hook or crook," and the young man smiled complacently.
"Look out, Louis; don't overreach yourself," said his companion, bending forward, and looking warningly into his face. "If you make an enemy of me, I warn you, it will be the worse for you."