refreshed and cheered.
She made noble resolutions to be more patient and considerate, and
pretended that she was really quite relieved to be leaving Jack
O'Shaughnessy, for it was far more difficult to withstand the humbugging
eyes now that she knew what a dear kind fellow he was at heart, and he
on his part seemed quite embarrassingly sorry to say good-bye!

"You have not been half so nice to me lately as you were the first few
days," he said plaintively in the privacy afforded by the strains of a
comb orchestra vigorously conducted at the end of the room. "I must
have offended you without meaning it; clumsy fellow that I am!"

"Oh dear no, not at all. It is only that I am getting better, and my
natural bad temper is asserting itself. Most people are mild when they
are ill," she replied lightly, but Jack was not so easily silenced.

"That's not the reason. Saving your presence, you are better tempered,
not worse, but there's a difference all the same. I suppose you don't
like me so well now that you know me better?"

"On the contrary, I like you infinitely more." Sylvia hesitated a
moment, then added with sudden resolution, "I thought you were a very
agreeable flirt; you amused me, and I enjoyed being flattered; but now I
think you are a real good friend, and I treat you in a different way.
One gets tired of compliments, but friendship grows better and better
all the time."

Jack coloured, and was silent. Sylvia wondered if he were offended by
the plainness of her words, but when he turned to her again, there was
the frank, manly expression in his eyes which she liked most to see.

"May I come and call upon you sometimes in the evening? I shall have no
chance of seeing you in the daytime."

"I should like it very much, but it is not my house, remember, and Aunt
Margaret is not fond of young men."

"But I am terribly partial to old ladies, and I never met the one yet
that wasn't wrapped up in me before we parted. I've got a way with old
ladies!" said Jack complacently. "There was an old dear in Ireland who
managed everyone for miles around, but she was as soft as putty in my
hands. The poor girl, her daughter, was not allowed to join in any of
the fun that was on hand, and when there was anything special coming on,
she'd write pitiful letters and ask me to lunch. I always went--she had
very good eyes of her own!--and she'd meet me in the drive, and put me
up to what she wanted. By the time the old