dress, but still, lower than she had ever worn in the
daytime. She fashioned the garment with an instinctive sense of form
that a Parisian _couturiere_ might have envied, and went to work. Her
nimble fingers soon cut and sewed it to the style she had intended, and
then she tried it on. As she looked at herself in the mirror the vision
of her loveliness surprised and charmed her. She had drawn a blue
ribband that she happened to possess, round the arms of the dress and
round the bodice of it, and when she saw how this little thread of
colour set off the full outlines of her bust and the white roundness of
her arms, she could have kissed her image in the glass. She was lovely,
prettier than any girl in the section. George would see that; he loved
beautiful things. Hadn't he talked of the scenery for half an hour? He'd
be pleased.

She thought again seriously whether her looks could not be improved.
After rummaging a little while in vain, she went downstairs and borrowed
a light woollen shawl from her mother on the pretext that she liked the
feel of it. Hastening up to her own room, she put it over her shoulders,
and practised a long time before the dim glass just to see how best she
could throw it back or draw it round her at will.

At last, with a sigh of content, she felt herself fully equipped for
the struggle; she was looking her best. If George didn't care for her
so--and she viewed herself again approvingly from all sides--why, she
couldn't help it. She had done all she could, but if he did, and he
must--why, then, he'd tell her, and they'd be happy. At the bottom of
her heart she felt afraid. George was strange; not a bit like other
men. He might be cold, and at the thought she felt inclined to cry out.
Pride, however, came to her aid. If he didn't like her, it would be his
fault. She had just done her best, and that she reckoned, with a flush
of pardonable conceit, was good enough for any _man_.

An hour later Bancroft went up to his room. As he opened the door Loo
turned towards him from the centre-table with a low cry of surprise,
drawing at the same time the ends of the fleecy woollen wrap tight
across her breast.

"Oh, George, how you scared me! I was jest fixin' up your things." And
the girl crimsoned, while her eyes sought to read his face.

"Thank you," he rejoined carelessly, and then, held by something of
expectation in her manner, he looked at her intently, and added: "Why,
Loo, how well you look! I