ederate. She was a young person whom it was impossible to
ignore, who systematically made herself the centre of attraction,
laughing, talking at the pitch of her voice, and gesticulating with her
little ringed hands. Hope felt a curious fascination in watching Mr
Merrilies' expression as he passively played the part of assistant, and
asked herself curiously if he returned Truda's feeling of "especial
interest". Impossible to say. His inscrutable face was no index to his
feelings, but if he showed no special pleasure in being thus singled
out, he at least made no effort to escape it. In spite of the warning
which she had received, Hope could not help feeling more interest in
this man than in any other member of the party; and she realised, with a
little thrill of satisfaction, that the interest was mutual. If she
took advantage of an unobserved moment to study him, he lost no
opportunity of watching her in return, and the knowledge that his dark
eyes were fixed on her as she talked, and sang, and moved about the room
filled her with a new and delightful self-consciousness.

Now, Hope was a warm-hearted girl, and, as was only natural, had given
many a thought to the lover of the future; but it never occurred to her
that there was any danger in the interest which she felt in Ralph
Merrilies, or in her intense consciousness of his presence. She deluded
herself into the belief that she was less cordially disposed to him than
to any other member of the party, for she had been warned that another
girl considered him her individual property, and was by no means willing
to share his attentions. So it came to pass that she kept quietly in
the background, and had little or nothing to say to Truda's cavalier.

On the third evening of Hope's stay at The Shanty the sportsmen came
home unusually tired, and for once Truda's after-dinner tricks failed to
entertain. The men had no inclination to exert their minds or their
muscles either, and turning to Hope, begged her for "a tune."

"The worst of Miss Charrington," sighed Reggie Blake regretfully, "is
that she is so painfully classical and superior. She never condescends
to play a piece whose composer hasn't seven syllables to his name and a
sneeze in the middle. They are very clever and all that sort of thing,
don't you know, but I always wonder when the tune is going to begin.
Squeak, squeak! in the treble; bang, bang! in the bass; a rolling like
heavy machinery, and all s