Bartlett, and
looked at her frayed glove.

"All right, if you'd really rather. Five shillings, and I gave a bob to
the driver."

Miss Bartlett looked in her purse. Only sovereigns and pennies. Could
any one give her change? Freddy had half a quid and his friend had four
half-crowns. Miss Bartlett accepted their moneys and then said: "But who
am I to give the sovereign to?"

"Let's leave it all till mother comes back," suggested Lucy.

"No, dear; your mother may take quite a long drive now that she is not
hampered with me. We all have our little foibles, and mine is the prompt
settling of accounts."

Here Freddy's friend, Mr. Floyd, made the one remark of his that need be
quoted: he offered to toss Freddy for Miss Bartlett's quid. A solution
seemed in sight, and even Cecil, who had been ostentatiously drinking
his tea at the view, felt the eternal attraction of Chance, and turned
round.

But this did not do, either.

"Please--please--I know I am a sad spoilsport, but it would make me
wretched. I should practically be robbing the one who lost."

"Freddy owes me fifteen shillings," interposed Cecil. "So it will work
out right if you give the pound to me."

"Fifteen shillings," said Miss Bartlett dubiously. "How is that, Mr.
Vyse?"

"Because, don't you see, Freddy paid your cab. Give me the pound, and we
shall avoid this deplorable gambling."

Miss Bartlett, who was poor at figures, became bewildered and rendered
up the sovereign, amidst the suppressed gurgles of the other youths. For
a moment Cecil was happy. He was playing at nonsense among his peers.
Then he glanced at Lucy, in whose face petty anxieties had marred the
smiles. In January he would rescue his Leonardo from this stupefying
twaddle.

"But I don't see that!" exclaimed Minnie Beebe who had narrowly watched
the iniquitous transaction. "I don't see why Mr. Vyse is to have the
quid."

"Because of the fifteen shillings and the five," they said solemnly.
"Fifteen shillings and five shillings make one pound, you see."

"But I don't see--"

They tried to stifle her with cake.

"No, thank you. I'm done. I don't see why--Freddy, don't poke me. Miss
Honeychurch, your brother's hurting me. Ow! What about Mr. Floyd's
ten shillings? Ow! No, I don't see and I never shall see why Miss
What's-her-name shouldn't pay that bob for the driver."'

"I had forgotten the driver," said Miss Bartlett, reddening. "Thank you,
dear, for reminding me. A shilling was