roval. It did not
seem to trouble Miss Bryant much. She knew Miss Lisle disliked her,
and took it as an inevitable fact, if not an indirect compliment to
her conquering charms. So she smiled and wished Judith good-morning.
But she had a sweeter smile for Bertie when, a little later, carefully
dressed, radiant, handsome, with her violets in his coat, he too went
on his way to Standon Square.

If Judith had been in Bellevue street when he came back, she might
have noticed that the little bouquet was gone. Had it dropped out
by accident? Or had Bertie merely defended his violets for fun, and
thrown them away as soon as her back was turned? Or what had happened
to them? There was no one to inquire.

Young Lisle strolled into Percival's room, and found him just come in
and waiting for his dinner. "I'm going to practise at St. Sylvester's
this afternoon," said the young fellow. "What do you say to a walk as
soon as you get away?"

Percival assented, and began to move some of the books and papers
which were strewn on the table. Lisle sat on the end of the horsehair
sofa and watched him. "I can't think how you can endure that blue
thing and those awful flowers continually before your eyes," he said
at last.

Percival shrugged his shoulders. He could not explain to Lisle that to
request that Lydia's love-token might be removed would have seemed to
him to be like going down to her level and rejecting what he preferred
to ignore. "What am I to do?" he said. "I believe they think it
very beautiful, and I fancy the flowers are home-made. People have
different ideas of art, but shall I therefore wound Miss Bryant's
feelings?"

"Heaven forbid!" said Bertie. "Did Lydia Bryant make those flowers?
How interesting!" He pulled the vase toward him for a closer
inspection. There was a crash, and light-blue fragments strewed the
floor, Percival, piling his books on the side-table, looked round with
an exclamation.

"Hullo!" said Lisle, "I've done it! Here's a pretty piece of work!
And you so fond of it, too!" He was picking up the flowers as he
spoke.--"Here, Emma," as the girl opened the door, "I've upset Mr.
Thorne's flower-vase. Tell Miss Bryant it was my doing, and I'm afraid
it won't mend. Better take up the pieces carefully, though, on the
chance." This was thoughtful of Bertie, as the bits were remarkably
small. "And here are the flowers--all right, I think. Have you got
everything?" He held the door open while she went out wi