"Unquestionably she is a good hater," answered Maurice.
Maurice again saw Fay Lafitte that evening at a ball given at the hotel by the lake where they were both staying. She was standing among a group of girls laughing and talking gayly, but to a close observer this light gayety might appear a symptom of restlessness rather than a proof of enjoyment. With her shining eyes and her crimson cheeks and lips she looked the Allegro of her morning's Penseroso. The young doctor took a station where he would not be remarked, and, forgetting Mrs. Felton's sage advice, kept his eyes fixed on the graceful girl. She gave him the impression of one who had been brought up in some foreign land, where public opinion is more exacting and the bounds of propriety more restricted than in ours. She was clearly a favorite among the ladies with whom she conversed. Several middle-aged gentlemen approached her with their wives and met a kind reception, but she avoided young men with a perversity that was amusing. In a person speaking to her he recognized an acquaintance, and, awaiting his opportunity, addressed him. After the first salutations he asked, "Mr. Allen, do you know Miss Lafitte?"
"From a child: her father is my oldest friend."
"Was she educated abroad?"
"Bless you! no: she is altogether American in training."
"Isn't she rather peculiar?" ventured Maurice.
"If by peculiar you mean the sweetest girl in the world, she is that," replied the old man enthusiastically.
"Is she generally liked?"
"Not by dandies and coxcombs: my little girl over there adores her. But let me introduce you."
"Willingly," ejaculated the other.