"I am so glad to have met you at last, Mr. Seton," she said
laughingly. "From Quentin's many accounts I had formed the opinion
that you were a kind of Arabian Nights myth."
"I am glad to disappoint you," replied Seton, finding something very
refreshing in the company of this pretty girl, who wore a creased
Burberry, and stray locks of whose abundant bright hair floated about
her face in the most careless fashion imaginable.
She turned to her cousin, frowning in a rather puzzled way.
"Whatever have you been burning here?" she asked. "There is such a
curious smell in the room."
Gray laughed more heartily than he had laughed that night, glancing in
Seton's direction.
"So much for your taste in cigars!" he cried
"Oh!" said Margaret, "I'm sure it's not Mr. Seton's cigar. It isn't a
smell of tobacco."
"I don't believe they're made of tobacco!" cried Gray, laughing louder
yet, although his merriment was forced.
Seton smiled good-naturedly at the joke, but he had perceived at the
moment of Margaret's entrance the fact that her gaiety also was
assumed. Serious business had dictated her visit, and he wondered the
more to note how deeply this odor, real or fancied, seemed to intrigue
her.
She sat down in the chair which Gray placed by the fireside, and her
cousin unceremoniously slid the brown packet of cigarettes across the
little table in her direction.
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