"What is an episode, sweetheart?"
"An episode is some kind of a time that doesn't happen but once."
"As for instance?"
"As for instance," said Alice thoughtfully, "Columbus discovering America. And, Narrowby,"—this in a very decided tone,—"I am not going to sit next to you on the drive: I don't wish to be oppressive." Alice had been studying her new rôle, and these were the hints she had gathered from various members of the club. A chaperon might mean a Christian martyr, or a married woman with very little discretion who went about with a lot of young people, or a selfish person who always selected the best young man and the best seat in the carriage, or a woman of a very accommodating disposition and a little deaf.
"I am not a Christian martyr," said Alice: "they were all burned at the stake long ago, poor things!—and I'm too young to be a married woman with very little discretion; and I can't be said to have the best seat in the carriage, either, as I generally have to sit in some one's lap; but I am accommodating, and, if I tried, I suppose I could be a little deaf. I certainly have got the best young man."
That afternoon we had a long drive and an hour on the cliffs. The blue harebells nodded over the rocky brinks, the tall pines stood erect in their Northern strength and glory, and the blue of the sky outrivalled the blue of the sea. Alice discreetly let me alone; but at dinner-time her small voice pleasantly announced at our door that the girls were not going to dress much the first evening. "I thought you'd like to know what to wear down," she said sweetly. "They've all got two extra dresses. Miss Hillard brought seven. She said 'one could never tell about the weather, and it was best to be safe.' She's got three hats and a bonnet."
"She brought that large trunk, and no end of small traps," grumbled Jim from within the room. "She had all kinds of bags and books and things floating round on the steamer. I had to pick them up for her."
Alice lowered her voice. She had no intention of taking Jim into our confidence. "Narrowby," she asked, "will you go with me to-morrow to see Nancy?"
"Who is Nancy? A butterfly?"
"She is a little Indian girl. She lives in a tent, and she will be six in September."
"Robert Harding," said Jim, as I closed the door, "you amaze me. You spend as much time with that Howard child as if she were a grown-up young lady. Why do you let her call you that ridiculous name? All the girls are calling you 'Sweet Narrowby' among themselves."
Jim had a sister in the party.
The evenings programme held a banjo-concert,—ten graceful girls, five young men, one child-performer, and Mrs. Howard at the piano. This was the club. Alice and I always placed our chairs together, and were a mutual support,—she knowing all the airs and all the accompaniments. Outside, flashes of light darted by the window: a fairy-ship lay in port. The yacht Beauty was sending us a wonderful good-night. Against the dark sky she stood, outlined in a blaze of Chinese lanterns, and shooting stars were rising from her deck.
"It's perfectly 'squisite and 'squisitely lovely," said a small youth, carelessly balanced on the upper rails of the balcony. The youth was a lad of ten, with languishing dark eyes, his hair falling over his forehead in a fashionable fringe. I asked his name.
"Anderson." And the languishing eyes looked down upon me with an air of superior indifference.
"Mr. Anderson?"
"Call me Paul," came from above.
"Paul, allow me to introduce my friends. Mr. Anderson, Miss Amies. Mr. Anderson, Miss Alice Howard."
Paul, after a few polite remarks, abruptly asked Miss Amies if she had read all of Scott, Dickens, and Thackeray, "Through One Administration," "For the Major," and "But Yet a Woman."
