“Ingram! He would not have stopped in the place five minutes, unless he could play the part of Diogenes and say rude things to everybody all around. Were you at all dull?” “A little.” “Didn’t somebody look after you?” “Oh, yes; many persons were very kind. But--but--” “Well?” “Nobody seemed to be better off than myself. They all seemed to be wanting something to do; and I am sure they were all very glad to come away.” “No, no, no, Sheila. That is only your fancy. You were not much interested, that is evident; but you will get on better when know more of the people. You were a stranger--that is what disappointed you--but you will not always be a stranger.” Sheila did not answer. Perhaps she contemplated, with no great hope or longing, the possibility of her coming to like such a method of getting through an evening. At all events, she looked forward with no great pleasure to the chance of her having to become friends with Mrs. Lorraine. All the way home Sheila was examining her own heart to try to discover why such bitter feelings should be there. Surely that girl was honest; there was honesty in her eyes. She had been most kind to Sheila herself. And was there not at times, when she abandoned the ways and speech of a woman of the world, a singular coy fascination about her that any man might be excused for yielding to, even as any woman might yield to it? Sheila fought with herself, and resolved that she would cast forth from her heart those harsh fancies and indignant feelings that seemed to have established themselves there. She would _not_ hate Mrs. Lorraine.