“But there is a great difference,” said the Vice-Consul, “between dislike and--I don’t know, my pet, what word to use.” “Yes, there is a great difference,” she said, demurely; and having her paper neatly arranged before her, she proceeded to write the note which follows:-- “Dear Mr. Oliver, “Papa is a great deal better. He thinks he would like to see you on Sunday if you would be so good as to come out here. He has been very much touched to hear of all you have been doing for him. And so am I. He wants to know all about it, and to thank you. But do not think you will be troubled with any thanks from me, for I know that you do not mean to be kind to us, though on the outside it looks like it. “Truly yours, “MARGHERITA BONAMY.” Here was once more her malice, which she could not put out of the question between them. She was glad that her father did not ask to see her note, and she put it up and sent it away with a little quickening of all her pulses. Sunday was the next day, but she felt sure enough that Harry would let no engagement prevent him accepting this invitation. They sat in silence for some time after that letter was despatched. Rita felt her whole life quickened, her horizon wider, the day of more importance, the passing moments more weighty. She sat quite silent, her mind being full of so many thoughts. At last the Vice-Consul spoke, as if no pause had occurred. “Notwithstanding,” he said, “you know Oliver is not clever, Rita; that must be taken into account.” On this Rita, not perceiving that she betrayed the strain of her own thoughts by receiving the remark without surprise, answered, with a little sigh of regret, “No, he is not clever; but perhaps there are some things that are better than being clever,” she added, in a doubtful tone. Mr. Bonamy laughed a little, faintly. “Are you coming to see that?” he said.