ooked very sweet. Did everybody say so?'

'I am not sure that they did. Men, you know, do not always admire what
women do.'

'I should think not. Men only admire beastliness.'

'Cecilia dear, you shouldn't talk like that; it isn't nice.'

Cecilia looked at Alice wistfully, and she said:

'But tell me about the presentations. I suppose there were an immense
number of people present?'

'Yes, and particularly _debutantes_; there were a great number presented
this year. It was considered a large Drawing-Room.'

'And how are you presented? I've heard my sister speak about it, but I
never quite understood.'

At that moment Barnes brought in the tea. She set it on a little table
used for the purpose.

'There is a letter for you, miss, on the tray,' she said as she left the
room; 'it came by the afternoon post.'

Without answering, Alice continued to pour out the tea, but when she
handed Cecilia her cup, she said, surprised at the dull, sullen stare
fixed upon her:

'What is the matter? Why do you look at me like that?'

'That letter, I am sure, is from Harding; it is a man's handwriting.'

She had been expecting that letter for days.

'Oh! give it me,' she said impulsively.

'There it is; I wouldn't touch it. I knew you liked that man; but I
didn't expect to find you corresponding with him. It is shameful; it
isn't worthy of you. You might have left such things to May Gould.'

'Cecilia, you have no right to speak to me in that way; you are
presuming too much on our friendship.'

'Oh, yes, yes; but before you met him I could not presume too much upon
our friendship.'

'If you want to know why I wrote to Mr. Harding, I'll tell you.'

'It was you who wrote to him, then?'

'Yes, I wrote to him.'

'Oh, yes, yes, yes; I see it all now,' cried Cecilia, and she walked
wildly to and fro, her eye tinged with a strange glare. 'Yes, I see it
all. This room, that was once a girl's room, is now Harding's room. He
is the atmosphere of the place. I was conscious of it when I entered,
but now it is visible to me--that manuscript, that writing-table, that
letter. Oh yes, it is Harding, all is Harding!'

'Cecilia, Cecilia, think, I beg of you, of what you are saying.'

But when Alice approached and strove to raise her from the pillow upon
which she had thrown herself, she started up and savagely confronted
her.

'Don't touch me, don't touch me!' she cried. 'I cannot bear it. What are
you to me, what am I to you? It