Belle was not in love with George, but she liked him, and his departure, without one word of significance, threw her into a paroxysm of angry despair. She severely cross-examined Betty as to whether he had said anything about _her_, when she had met him in the avenue, also as to whether he looked at all sorry or cut up? Betty admitted that he had (this with a rather guilty conscience--How could she tell her fierce questioner that his regrets were for herself?) and that deeply dissatisfied lady relapsed into low spirits, a fractious temper, and her old clothes. She wrote to George steadily, and he in return sent her amusing descriptions of his voyage out, of his station, of his munshi, and of his dogs, invariably concluding with some message to Betty--which Belle did not consider it worth while to repeat. Her only hope now--and that a faint one--was that George would write to her to join him; and in her letters, she mentioned more than once how sincerely she _envied_ him living in warm sunny India instead of rainy, melancholy, dull Ballingoole; and imparted her views and sentiments with a charming disregard of conventional restraint. He had always been a most appreciative and attentive acquaintance, but alas! he had never let fall anything approaching to an offer of marriage. He had given her songs, books, photographs, but there had never been a hint of offering himself. “Not as yet,” whispered hope. She read large extracts of his letters aloud to eager and interested Betty, and interested and puzzled Maria Finny, and indeed there was no reason why she might not have read them straight on from--Dear Miss Redmond to Yours Sincerely, for there was not a line that even Jane Bolland at the post office could weave into a romance; and she talked of “her letters from Mr. Holroyd” so constantly, and carried them about her person so ostentatiously, that Maria began to fear she was engaged; and even Betty could barely stifle the mutterings of the green-eyed monster. The summer was a dull one, especially to Belle; far be it from _her_ to fish or boat on the canal, or to go in quest of mushrooms or blackberries in high-heeled French boots. There were hopeless wet days, which drowned the hay and flowers, and subsequently made the country intensely and patriotically green. There were a few picnics, a few gatherings, where crowds of pretty girls were expected to amuse one another, and men were in a deplorable minority, and even then, stout elderly fathers of families, and married curates. Belle and Betty partook of some of these festivities; the latter was a girl who enjoyed herself anywhere, who was happy in the society of young people of her own age, who played tennis, climbed hills, made salad, and boiled kettles, with a merry beaming face, and did not care if there was not one representative of the sterner sex among the company, since the only man _she_ wished to see, was thousands of miles away at the other side of the world. But not so Belle.