"Thank you, dear. It is to be regretted you are of the weaker sex. So
delicately veiled a compliment would not have disgraced a
Chesterfield."

"Was it too glaring? Well, I will do away with it. I was thinking
entirely of Letty. I was comparing her skin very favorably with yours.
That reminds me I must write home to-day. I hope John won't be offended
with me about this money. Though, after all, there can't be much harm
in accepting a present from one's grandfather."

"I should think not, indeed. I only wish I had a grandfather, and
wouldn't I utilize him! But I am an unfortunate,--alone in the world."

Even as she speaks, the door in the next drawing-room opens, and
through the folding-doors, which stand apart, she sees her husband
enter, and make his way to a davenport.

"That destroys your argument," says Molly, with a low laugh, as she
runs away to her own room to write her letters.

For a few minutes Cecil sits silently enjoying a distant view of her
husband's back. But she is far too much of a coquette to let him long
remain in ignorance of her near proximity. Going softly up to him, and
leaning lightly over his shoulder, she says, in a half-whisper, "What
are you doing?"

He starts a little, not having expected to see so fair an apparition,
and lays one of his hands over hers as it rests upon his shoulder.

"Is it you?" he says. "I did not hear you coming."

"No? That was because I was farthest from your thoughts. You are
writing? To whom?"

"My tailor, for one. It is a sad but certain fact that, sooner or
later, one's tailor must be paid."

"So must one's _modiste_." With a sigh. "It is that sort of person
who spoils one's life."

"Is your life spoiled?"

"Oh, yes, in many ways."

"Poor little soul!" says he, with a half laugh, tightening his fingers
over hers. "Is your dressmaker hardhearted?"

"Don't get me to begin on that subject, or I shall never leave off. The
wrongs I have suffered at that woman's hands! But then why talk of what
cannot be helped?"

"Perhaps it may. Can I do nothing for you?"

"I am afraid not." Moving a little away from him. "And yet, perhaps, if
you choose, you might. You are writing; I wish"--throwing down her
eyes, as though confused (which she isn't), and assuming her most
guileless air--"you would write something for _me_."

"What a simple request! Of course I will--anything."

"Really? You promise?"

"Faithfully."

"It is not, perhaps, quite so simple a