ust telling
me what an enjoyable voyage he had; and I was congratulating him. There
is nothing on earth so depressing or so humiliating as sea-sickness.
Don't you agree with me?"

Mr. Amherst mutters something in which the word "brazen" is distinctly
heard; while Cecil, turning to her companion, says hastily, holding out
her hand, with a soft, graceful movement:

"We are friends?"

"Forever, I trust," he replies, taking the little plump white hand
within his own, and giving it a hearty squeeze.

* * * * *

To some the evening is a long one,--to Luttrell and Molly, for
instance, who are at daggers drawn and maintain a dignified silence
toward each other.

Tedcastle, indeed, holds his head so high that if by chance his gaze
should rest in Molly's direction, it must perforce pass over her
without fear of descending to her face. (This is wise, because to look
at Molly is to find one's self disarmed.) There is an air of settled
hostility about him that angers her beyond all words.

"What does he mean by glowering like that, and looking as though he
could devour somebody? How different he used to be in dear old
Brooklyn! Who could have thought he would turn out such a Tartar? Well,
there is no knowing any man; and yet---- It is a pity not to give him
something to glower about," thinks Miss Massereene, in an access of
rage, and forthwith deliberately sets herself out to encourage Shadwell
and Mr. Potts.

She has a brilliant success, and, although secretly sore at heart,
manages to pass her time agreeably, and, let us hope, profitably.

Marcia, whose hatred toward her rival grows with every glance cast at
her from Philip's eyes, turns to Tedcastle and takes him in hand. Her
voice is low, her manner subdued, but designing. Whatever she may be
saying is hardly likely to act as cure to Teddy's heart-ache; at least
so thinks Cecil, and, coming to the rescue, sends Sir Penthony across
to talk to him, and drawing him from Marcia's side, leads him into a
lengthened history of all those who have come and gone in the old
regiment since he sold out.

The _ruse_ is successful, but leaves Cecil still indignant with
Molly. "What a wretched little flirt she is!" She turns an enraged
glance upon where Miss Massereene is sitting deep in a discussion with
Mr. Potts.

"Have you any Christian name?" Molly is asking, with a beaming smile,
fixing her liquid Irish eyes upon the enslaved Potts.