coldness. The one may be an attack on her
dignity, but the other is a slight to her charm. And Felicity had such
pretty manners; there was a touch of formality always with all her
gaiety that left a dashing young man in doubt. It was certainly an
interesting doubt.

* * * * *

"I never met any one quite so definite in my life as that young man,"
said Felicity as she ate her toast, holding the _Daily Mail_ upside
down. She and Savile were sitting rather late over a somewhat silent
breakfast. He appeared rather absent-minded and replied to her remark.

"Yes, she was perfectly gorgeous, she looked magnificent. (Pass me the
toast, old girl. Thanks.) I say, she looked at me!"

"He said such peculiar things. He's different from other people,
certainly," said Felicity argumentatively. "A really brilliant talker.
It's so rare."

"No wonder she was called the Nightingale! Thanks very much. Don't talk
to me about Jenny Lind."

"I wasn't. You see he's rather lonely and unhappy, after all, you know,
under all that cynicism and rattling. Every one has two sides to their
character (I believe in Browning up to a certain point)--one to face the
world with, and the other to show."

"As to Clara Butt, or any of these newfangled people, that's all rot! I
tell you straight, I don't believe it," said Savile.

"You're quite right, dear. One can't deny that he's amusing. There's
something so ready about him, and he's so kind and good-hearted as well
as clever. He has personality. That's the word."

"Yes, she's a ripping, glorious creature! Oh, it is a pity she married
again before I knew her! And a Swede too! But still, that's her
business...."

"Of course I told him not to call again until I wrote. There's a good
deal in him--when you know him better, you know."

Suddenly Savile looked up and said--

"I say, Felicity, what are you doing to-night?"

"I don't know, I haven't thought of it."

"Chetwode not turning up yesterday you were disappointed."

"I know I was. And, yet--look at this letter!" she showed him another of
her husband's long elaborate love-letters.

"Letters are all right, and of course no man, especially your husband,
would write all that stuff--I beg your pardon--unless everything was all
right. But Chetwode's eccentric."

"I suppose he is. I think I shall dine out to-night, Savile, after all."

"After all what?" asked Savile.

"I'm engaged to-night, dear."

"You're sur