ng the day to a point of patronage that was
distinctly aggravating. She openly pitied girls who did not receive
private letters, and spoke of early engagements as highly desirable.
She missed two catches when fielding at cricket, being employed in
staring sentimentally at the sky instead of watching for the ball.

"Buck up, you silly idiot, can't you? You're a disgrace to the
school!" snarled Nora Fawcitt furiously.

Cynthia sighed gently, with the air of "Ah-if-you-only-knew-my-feelings!"
and twisted the ends of her hair into ringlets. After tea, in defiance of
all school traditions, she changed her dress and put on her best
slippers. She appeared in the schoolroom with a bunch of pansies pinned
into her belt.

Preparation was from six to seven, and was supposed to be a period of
strenuous mental application. That evening, however, Cynthia made
little progress with her Latin exercise or the Wars of the Roses. Her
Form mates, looking up in the intervals of conning their textbooks,
noted her sitting with idle pen, gazing raptly into space or glancing
anxiously at the clock. Though she had not confided the details of her
secret, her companions felt that something was going to happen.
Romance was in the atmosphere. Several of the juniors found themselves
wishing that clandestine letters had appeared in their desks also.
When the signal for dismissal was given, and the girls trooped from
the schoolroom, Cynthia mysteriously melted away somewhere. Ardiune,
walking round the quad. five minutes later, accosted Joan Butler,
Janet Macpherson, Nancie Page, and Isobel Parker, who were sitting on
the steps of the sundial reading Ella Wheeler Wilcox's _Poems of
Love_.

"If you'd like a little sport," she observed, "come along with me. You
may bring Elsie and Nora if you can find them. I promise you a jinky
time!"

The juniors rose readily. None of them were really very fond of
reading, but Cynthia had lent them the book earlier in the day, with a
few pages turned down for reference. They flung it on to the stone
step, with scant regard for its white cover. Ardiune led her recruits
hastily to the back drive, and bade them hide behind the thick laurel
and clipped holly bushes that backed the border.

"Somebody you know is coming to keep an appointment, and will get a
surprise," she volunteered.

They had hardly taken cover when Cynthia Greene appeared, strolling
along the drive. She advanced to the gate, leaned her elbow on i