Miss Watts found Isabelle more reasonable, more amenable than ever before in their association, and as she had made some pleasant acquaintances, she was thoroughly enjoying herself. She hoped their stay would be long. In her reports to the Bryces she conscientiously mentioned Isabelle’s good behaviour and her improvement in health.

She watched the career of her charge with interest and some concern. She saw with surprise that the girl had hit upon the only possible way of intriguing the interest of a spoiled darling like Captain O’Leary. She flitted like a will-o’-the-wisp before him.

Larry thought that their talk on the beach had established a new relation, but he soon found that he could not rely on it. When she was particularly annoying he reminded her how sweet she had been that day, but all she could recall of it was that he had cut Percy out! If he ignored her completely, suddenly she was like a soft little rabbit in his hands, all heart-beat. She puzzled and annoyed him.

These were busy days for Isabelle. Percy and Jack were always under foot. They furnished comic relief when her military intrigue threatened to become serious. Then her “god-son,” Jean Jacques Petard, who was wounded and in a hospital, replied to her maternal solicitude with prolonged and passionate devotion. Isabelle shared the treasure with Agnes, who protested that none of her godsons wrote to her like that; and she asked to have Jean back. Isabelle stoutly refused. A gift was a gift. Agnes had given her Jean and she intended to keep him.

“But you took my two best ones.”

“You gave me my choice, didn’t you?”

“Yes, and I was a silly to do it. I might have known you’d take the best ones”—hotly.

“But you had letters from him. You say yourself he never wrote to you like that. It’s me he’s writing to, not you.”

“Well, of all the conceited things!” cried Agnes.

“I’m glad I am. I’ll give you Edouard back, if you’re going to make such a row.”

“I don’t want him.”

“All right, that settles it. It wouldn’t be fair to Jean to give him back to you.”

“Fair! Lots you care about fair.”

“Do you think it’s fair to pass a soldier of France—one of our allies—back and forth between mothers, like a bean-bag?”

“I have nothing more to say. I have found you out, Isabelle Bryce. I give to you generously, and you prove a false friend.”

Agnes walked away with her face flushed and her head high. It was too bad to be treated like this when you were doing your patriotic duty. She brooded on the matter for several days, avoiding her false friend, and then an idea of revenge took possession of her.

Chance played into her hands at the moment, by putting into her lap a copy of a fashionable magazine. It had two pages of pictures of the idlers at Bermuda. An enlarged snapshot of Isabelle coming out of the sea, was featured with a brief biographic sketch of her meteoric career as actress, of her family, and her wealth. Agnes cut this out, enclosing it with an anonymous letter to Petard. She told of the miserable trick played upon him. Isabelle was only seventeen and a half, and in no way fit to be a god-mother to him. She was infatuated with him, and pretended to be old, so she would have an excuse to write him.

This malicious mischief mailed and headed for France, Agnes felt better, and awaited results. She would make up with Isabelle in time to hear what Jean Jacques Petard would say now. She hoped he would denounce her as a traitor!

So far as Isabelle was concerned, Agnes and her injured feelings were of no moment. It was a trifle awkward when Percy and Jack arranged a foursome, but by strict formality of intercourse, they managed the situation. The boys were soon aware of it, and found much amusement in urging the combatants to battle. Percy tried to pump Agnes as to the cause of the rupture, but nothing could unseal her lips on the secret. She could imagine what those boys would do if they knew the truth. So poor Agnes suffered in silence, nursed her secret triumph, and staged the moment of Isabelle’s downfall.

Major O’Dell, whom by this time Isabelle counted a friend, approached one day as she dallied with her two admirers.

“I impersonate Mercury, bearing an invitation,” he said.

“I’ll do anything with you, Major O’Dell, but I don’t want to play with your crowd.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the women. They pick on me.”

“Larry and I will protect you.”

“Humph!”

“I have the permission of the amiable Miss Watts. It is all arranged.”

“What is it?”

“Monty Haven’s yacht is at anchor and he wants you to come for a sail and lunch aboard.”

“Sorry. I’m engaged to-day with Percy.”

“May I add that a certain gentleman, not at the moment in your good graces, entreats you to come?”

“Sorry. You wouldn’t let me off, would you, Percy?”

“No”—firmly.

“Alas! This is final?” asked the Major.

“Convey my thanks to Mr.Haven, please, dear Major O’Dell, and mention——”

“‘Percy’,” he interrupted with a smile, and left.

“What did you put it on me for?” complained Percy.

“Come down on the beach and watch them go,” ordered Isabelle, leading the way.

They sat them down and watched preparations on the yacht. A motor boat came ashore and carried off the guests.

“Now aren’t you sorry?” said Percy.

“Nope.”

The motor boat presently put off again—in their direction. It came as near shore as it dared, and stopped. Captain O’Leary stepped overboard into the shallow water, and advanced upon the puzzled three. He bowed, leaned over, picked up Miss Isabelle Bryce in his arms, and marched into the sea and toward the boat.

“Hi there! what are you doing?” cried Percy.

“Come and get me, you big idiots!” called Isabelle over O’Leary’s shoulder.

The two boys plunged in. O’Leary laughed and ran. He set her in the boat, jumped in himself, and they were off, leaving the two swains hip deep and helpless.

Isabelle turned smouldering eyes on the Captain.

“Cricket, my dear,” said he, “I feel that there is an excess of Percy!”

She blazed in silent fury.

“Cricket, don’t be cross. It was only a joke to tease your beaux. They were funny, standin’ there in their neat white flannels, weren’t they now?”

No answer.

They were received with a shout of delight from the boat. Haven met them at the rail and greeted Isabelle.

“Larry, you win!” he shouted, and they all shook hands with the Captain and beat him on the back.

“Win?” inquired Isabelle.

“Major O’Dell bet Larry that he couldn’t get you aboard and Larry took him.”

“Major O’Dell, that wasn’t fair,” cried Isabelle.

They all stared at him, and she added with a chuckle:

“It happened just as we planned it, didn’t it?”

“Did you put something up on me, O’Dell?” cried Larry. “Ye cheat—ye old pirate!”

He fell upon him, and a rough-and-tumble inaugurated the party. When O’Dell found a chance he joined Isabelle.

“You little witch!” he said. “Ye certainly made a booby of ole Larry. But don’t you be coming between me and my best friend.”

“I won’t if he keeps out of my way,” she blazed, “but I’m mad!”

“’Twas only a joke. We wanted ye to come. For my sake, be nice and funny, an’ like yourself.”

“All right,” she answered amiably. “But you owe me something, if I am.”

“Name it, and it’s yours.”

“It’s mine already. I want my Chinese coat back.”

He stared at her for a full second.

“It is yours, then?”

“Yes.”

“I told him it was——”

“Told him?”

“It wasn’t my room ye left it in.”

“No? How did you know, then?”—in alarm.

“The man who found it asked every woman aboard and never thought of you, because—well—you’re such a baby,” he added, staring.

“What’s that got to do with it? I went out in the corridor to get some air, and I went in the wrong door, by mistake. I took off my coat, and started to climb up to my berth, when the boat joggled, and I put my hand on a moustache! I was so scared that I ran off without my coat.”

The Major began to laugh.

“What’s the joke?” inquired Larry, joining them.

“It’s a secret between Major O’Dell and me. On your sacred honour, Major, you won’t tell,” said Isabelle.

“On my sacred honour.”

“Go away, O’Dell, and let me make my peace with the Cricket.”

“Major O’Dell, you will stay, if you please.”

True to her promise to O’Dell, she played up and kept them all amused, but she never so much as looked at Larry. Thoroughly annoyed, he devoted himself conspicuously to Mrs.Darlington and Miss Devoe. But he might have been in China for all the impression his flirtation made on Isabelle. They landed late in the afternoon, with the Bryce-O’Leary feud still on.

Isabelle told the story of her capture to Miss Watts, but with that lady’s perverted English sense of humour, she thought O’Leary’s prank was funny. She knew that she ought to disapprove of it, but she only laughed.

Isabelle went off to read a letter which she found awaiting her, from her god-son Jean. It proved rather a surprise. She read it twice. It was undeniably a love-letter. In it he told her—that he adored her in a great many ways and a great many times. He had known all along that she was not old, and now that he saw how young she was, how lovely... it went on and on. He wished to address her father at once, and ask her hand in marriage. He enclosed a photograph of himself; he was quite good looking. It was a thrilling letter, but it took her breath away. How could he know she was young and lovely?

She answered it instantly, tearing up many sheets of paper in the process. She assured him that he was mistaken, that she was too old to think of marriage, even if she loved him—which she could not say she did, because she didn’t know him. Her father was long since dead, so he could not address him, etc., etc. In short, unless he could think of her as his devoted marraine they must end the correspondence, there and then.

She despatched it at once, with a resolve to handle “her son Jean” with more restraint in the future. Needless to say she did not mention the letter to Agnes, whose overtures to peace she had finally accepted.

Life went on its interesting way. Captain O’Leary made his peace with her, too, and lost it again. Major O’Dell acted as intermediary in their battles. He was delightful, in this capacity, but he would not tell any more about the coat. He said he would see that it was returned to her, but that it might take some time.

The next letter from Jean Jacques Petard was a flaming torch of passion. She might as well drop her disguise. He knew her for her true self. He loved her madly; he read her love, in the cold lines she forced her pen to write. One word of love from her and he would come. He was on convalescent leave and at her service.

She was really alarmed now. Nothing but the impossibility of getting a cable sent kept her from that extravagance. She wrote him at length. It was all a mistake. She admitted that she was young. She told him that she did not love him, and that—deeply grateful though she was for his beautiful devotion—she felt that this must be her last communication to him. She added, in the hope of putting an end to his letters, that she was about to leave Bermuda. With a sigh of relief she posted this dismissal, and at that moment she ceased to be marraine to Jean and Edouard. It was too bad that duty should carry so amiss!

Two weeks later, with no explanation or excuse, a cable came from Wally to Miss Watts:

“Come home by next boat.”

It was a blow to them both, they were having such a good time. But it was “theirs not to question why”—so they packed hastily, to catch the steamer leaving on the morrow.

It happened that hostilities were on at the moment, between Isabelle and the Captain. She did not want to leave him without a farewell, nor did she want to make overtures toward peace. He was off on Haven’s yacht when the news of the approaching sudden departure spread about. It happened that on his return no one spoke to him about it. Isabelle saw him after dinner on the terrace. He lit a cigarette and strolled off alone toward the gardens. She followed him. He wandered into a sort of kiosk, where the view was fine, and she darted in after him, and straight into his arms.

“Good-bye,” she said, “good-bye. I hope it isn’t for ever.”

He held her to him in complete surprise, and laid his cheek upon her hair.

“Cricket,” he said softly, “little old crickety-Cricket! Good-bye for what?”

She started back and looked up at him.

“You! You!” she cried. “Oh! But I thought you were——”

“Not Percy!” he exploded.

But she ran away fast, through the garden, and he heard her laughter.

This was the memory that Isabelle carried with her on the way home. It was sweet and warm. She was content with it for a while.

Wally met them at the pier. It was plain that he was excited. After hasty greetings, he turned to his daughter.

“Who in thunder is this Frenchman you’re engaged to?”

“What?” she demanded, startled.

“Jean Jacques Petard visits me; Jean Jacques Petard patrols our house; Jean Jacques Petard shadows your mother——”

“But I—but he isn’t——”

“None of your tricks!” ordered Wally. “What we want to know is who is this Jean Jacques Petard, who demands your hand in marriage?”

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