“And he’s very fond of you, too.” It was a serious statement and I could detect no ridicule in her voice. She put out her cigarette on the trunk of the tree. “You know, somebody like you would be good for Philip McAllister. He’s a monkish bloke.”

“Well, I’m not,” I replied testily.

“Of course you are. If you weren’t, would you have chosen to be buried alive in my Aunt Lucy’s house?” And after a moment, as if to herself, “Jesus Christ! How you could do it I shall never know!”

“I’m satisfied,” I told her.

“Oh, I know. And so is my aunt. Poor creature, she deserves someone like you after me. Have you noticed, by the way, how much we would like to murder each other these days?”

I had, indeed, noticed that the girl and her aunt had found it difficult to be anything more than civil. Arguments arose at the dinner table over such trifling matters as the advisability of giving the Countess a set of artichoke plates for her birthday which Miss Pride thought would be welcome, or an onyx deer that had caught Hopestill’s eye. Or they railed at each other over the season of some cousin’s marriage or another’s début. Or Hopestill would contend that her aunt’s salad dressing was unpalatable because it was made with lemon instead of wine vinegar. Often I was called upon to settle a dispute. Invariably I agreed with Miss Pride out of cowardice, and while she readily used me as a court of appeal, she sometimes forgot, in her periodic scoldings, that I had settled an argument which otherwise might have gone on indefinitely, and she told me that she was by no means flattered at my constant agreement with her opinions. “I am an old woman,” she said once, “and it has taken me many years to develop my prejudices and my affinities. It is nothing short of impertinence in you to adopt them without doing any of the work.” Now on the other hand, Hopestill frequently expressed her gratitude: “If you hadn’t settled on the artichoke plates, we would have gone on quibbling for weeks.”

“We’ve disliked each other more since you came,” continued Hopestill. “But I suppose that’s reasonable. Do you know what is making my aunt’s blood boil now? She’s afraid Philip is interested in you and she’s perfectly wild that I’m not doing anything about it.”

“Oh, drop it,” I cried and got to my feet.

“As you say,” she agreed, shrugging her shoulders. But she was not content to remain silent long and when we had got back to the bridle path, she said, “Really, I was quite serious when I said some one like you would be good for McAllister.” Her use of his surname unaccountably put me at my ease and I asked her why. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know if you’re religious in the least, but you have a nice sort of tranquillity about you that might turn into piety. Philip’s bound to get religion sooner or later and I’d be the worst kind of wet blanket. I’m like Aunt Lucy: I think of God as a great big man.”