in the supper-room. I'm going in for some; I heard Hugh
Pierson say it was ripping; come and let's have some."

"I couldn't touch any," said Nell with a little shudder of disgust.

Boris looked at her and gave vent to the faintest of sighs.

"While I'm having my lobster, you could eat a jelly, couldn't you?" he
said in the most insinuating of whispers.

"No, I couldn't; I couldn't touch anything. Go and eat if you want to,
and then come back to me here. I'm going to stand by that window;
perhaps he'll come back and take another peep."

"It couldn't have been him, Nell; you know it couldn't; he's away in
London, you know."

"I tell you it was him."

"Has he brought back my dove, do you think?"

"No, no; who cares about a dove just now?"

"Nell, I really do care, and my cage is most beautiful and clean. I put
in fresh seed and water only this morning; wasn't it lucky?"

"Well, the dove hasn't come," said Nell; "you know it was 'perhaps'
about the dove, and about the pony, and about all the jolly
things--you're always forgetting that it was 'perhaps.' There, go and
eat your lobster, and come back to me when you have done; don't drink
too much champagne, or maybe you'll turn giddy. I'll wait here by this
window."

Boris, looking decidedly depressed, hesitated for a moment; then seeing
that Nell was resolute, he decided that, even if disappointment were in
store, he could all the rest of his life reflect that he had sat up late
and eaten lobster salad for supper. He accordingly sidled away in the
direction of the supper-room, and Nell, with a light movement, sprang on
one of the benches and then into the deep recess of a window. Here, with
her cloudy hair all about her, her little face as white as her dress,
her eyes big and spiritual in the trouble which vaguely stirred her
sensitive soul, she looked out into the night. Her large wings shielded
her little form, and nobody noticed that one fairy was not joining in
the revels.

"I did see him," murmured Nell; "I saw his face just for a minute; he
pressed it up against the pane and looked in; his hair was all ruffled,
and his eyes, his eyes--oh, the thought of his eyes makes me ache so
badly. Why doesn't he come in? What is he doing out in the garden? I
know he has come back. I know he's not in London; he has come back and
he is in the garden, and we are all so jolly, and he so sad. What is the
matter? Oh, I know quite well; it's _perhaps_; and the pony, and the