I wonder what he meant by that, said Lois to herself, the color mounting to her cheek. "He thought I had changed, did he?" she asked tentatively, after a moment, a trace of grimness stealing into her face, where it lay like a little cloud in May.
"Yes; he hardly knew you. You see, he did not have the greeting that I got."
"I should think not!" exclaimed Lois. "If he had, I don't know what he might have thought!" She grew as grave as she could.
"He said you were the sweetest and prettiest girl there, and that all the beauty of New York was there, even the beautiful Mrs.--what is her name? She was Miss Yorke."
Lois's face relaxed suddenly with an effect of sunshine breaking through a cloud.
"Did he say that?" she exclaimed.
"He did, and more. He is a young man of some discernment," observed the old fellow, with a chuckle of gratification.
"Oh, but he was only blinding you. He is in love with Mrs. Lancaster."
"Not he."
But Lois protested guilefully that he was.