Cynthia sighed miserably. She was quite sure that her heart was broken, but she was glad he loved her, and she would treasure his violets always, though she would not go to the matinée to see him again. All was over. The dinner ended at last; and as the Dayton party filed past the Randolph table their progress was blocked by an incoming group. Cynthia did not raise her eyes; but suddenly her affinity's jovial voice fell upon her ears like a blow. "Look, Daisy, there's the little girl who's so silly over me--yes; the blonde one. Pretty child, isn't she? Too bad to encourage such infants, but they mean box-office receipts, and we have to earn terrapin like this, in one way or another." Just how Cynthia got out of the room she will never know. She was blushing furiously, for shame's sake, and the tears of mortification in her eyes kept her from recognizing Billy Bennington immediately when he appeared at her elbow. "Oh, I say, Miss Weston, this _is_ jolly. Let me go out to the carriage with you." Billy was a nice little boy, but she hated him. She hoped she'd never see a man again. She wished she were dead. She rather thought she'd go into a convent. "D-d-id you g-get my valentine?" stammered Billy. He knew that something had gone wrong with his divinity, and he was embarrassed, but his conscience was clear. Cynthia shook her head. "What? You never got my violets?" She turned toward him swiftly. "Violets?" "Why, yes. I sent you those big single ones you like best, and I put a little valentine in with them." She looked at the chubby little figure, the round, rosy face, the neatly-parted blond hair, the downy moustache. For a moment a resplendent vision of a raven-haired hero blotted out poor Billy's image, and the little girl winked fast to keep back the tears. She had learned a lesson not down on the Ryder schedule and found it overwhelming, but she managed to smile faintly. "Yes, I did get the flowers. Thank you so much," she said in a small, wobbly voice. The carriage door slammed and she was whirled away, while Billy stood gazing fatuously into the night. The next morning there were long-stemmed single violets and shredded photographs in the Ryder ash-can. CHAPTER VIII THE QUEER LITTLE THING BONITA ALLEN was a queer little thing. Everyone in the school, from Miss Ryder down to the chambermaid, had made remarks to that effect before the child had spent forty-eight hours in the house, yet no one seemed able to give a convincing reason for the general impression. The new pupil was quiet, docile, moderately well dressed, fairly good looking. She did nothing extraordinary. In fact, she effaced herself as far as possible; yet from the first she caused a ripple in the placid current of the school, and her personality was distinctly felt.