"No," I said, "I do not know her; but she is a great friend of a friend of mine."
"Well, this Alice Fitzgerald—how pale you are, May," said Evelyn, suddenly stopping short in her explanation; "are you very tired?"
"No, not at all," I said; "go on, I want to hear about your Alice Fitzgerald."
"Well, my Alice Fitzgerald is a very pretty girl, at least I think she is, and a nice sort of girl, though she isn't a bit like you. I don't mean that you are not nice, you dear old thing," said Evelyn, laughing, "but she is quite different from you; I'm rather afraid you will quarrel."
"Oh no, I hope not!"
"No, you must not quarrel," said Evelyn, "though she has some very strange ideas; but, after all, what does it matter what one believes?"
I was about to answer her when the door opened, and the subject of our conversation entered. She was a tall, fair-haired girl of about my own age, and was indeed, as Evelyn had said, very pretty.
"Alice, this is my friend, May Lindsay," was Evelyn's introduction, as she came in.
Miss Fitzgerald shook hands with me pleasantly, and then sat down on a low seat by the fire, and took her work out of a pretty, embroidered pocket which hung by her side.
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Lindsay," she said, laughing, "for I have been hearing your praises sounded morning, noon, and night, ever since I came."