know all I have suffered this week."

"You certainly disguised it very well," said the girl, with total
disbelief in her eyes.

"Do you think I felt nothing when I saw you all day with Vavasour,
who every one knows is madly in love with you; and then dancing every
dance--not leaving a corner in your programme for me?"

"You didn't ask me," said Bluebell, less austerely.

"No, for you never so much as looked my way. Besides, Bluebell, I told
you we must be careful. If Colonel Rolleston guessed my feelings for
you--he is so selfish, he forgets he has been young himself--I should be
no longer welcome here."

"Then, I am sure," said Bluebell, the tears rushing to her eyes, "I wish
you had never come. I have been _miserable_ ever since I took that stupid
walk, which you prevented my mentioning; and--and--"

"Let's be miserable again next Sunday, Bluebell," whispered Bertie.

"I shall not go home; or, if I do, I'll stop there. I'll _never_ walk
with you again, Captain Du Meresq."

"'Quoth the raven, "never more!"' I know what it is, you are tired to
death. Sit still on the sofa and I will bring you some supper; sleighing
all day and dancing all night have distorted your mental vision,"--and
Bertie dashed off, passing the young lady he was engaged to on his way to
the supper room, with an inward conviction that their dance must be about
due. Having possessed himself of a modicum of prairie hen, he intercepted
a tumbler of champagne cup just being handed across the table to Captain
Delamere.

"Confound it, that's mine!" said the aggrieved individual.

"I want it for a lady," urged Bertie.

"So do I," said Delamere.

"My dear fellow," said Bertie, chaffingly, nodding towards a gorgeous
American, "it is for Mrs. Commissioner Duloe. She must not be kept
waiting."

"I won't allow my lady to be second to any lady in the room," cried
Delamere who was elevated.

Bertie was in too great a hurry to chaff Delamere any longer, for,
perceiving that his relatives were safely at supper, he resolved to
make the most of the few minutes at his disposal, and, as he would
have expressed it, "lay it on thick."

Bluebell was leaning languidly back on the sofa, watching the forms
of the dancers, ever revolving past the open door to the strains of
a heart-broken valse. (_En passant_, why are the prettiest valses all
plaintive and despairing, quadrilles and lancers cheerful and jiggy,
and galops reckless, not to say tipsy?)

Berti