CHAPTER IV.

NINETY-NINE FAHRENHEIT.


Rodney Sherrett got up from the breakfast table, where he had eaten
half an hour later than the rest of the family, threw aside the
newspaper that had served to accompany his meal as it had previously
done his father's, and walked out through the conservatory upon the
slope of lawn scattered over with bright little flower-beds, among
which his sister, with a large shade hat on, and a pair of garden
scissors and a basket in her hands, was moving about, cutting
carnations and tea-roses and bouvardia and geranium leaves and bits
of vines, for her baskets and shells and vases.

"I say, Amy, why haven't you been over to the Argenters' this long
while? Why don't you get Sylvie here?"

"Why, I did go, Rod! Just when you asked me to. And she has been
here; she called three weeks ago."

"O, poh! After the spill! Of course you did. Just called; and she
called. Why need that be the end of it? Why don't you make much of
her? I can tell you she's a girl you _might_ make much of. She
behaved like a lady, that day; and a _woman_,--that's more. She was
neither scared nor mad; didn't scream, nor pout; nor even stand
round to keep up the excitement. She was just cool and quiet, and
took herself off properly. I don't know another girl that would have