She looked at her sister with accusing eyes. But Alice tossed her head, and declared she wasn’t going to be lectured by her younger sister. “You yourself told mother this morning that Connie had insulted you.” “Yes, and I was a beast to say so!” cried the girl “She meant it awfully well. Only I thought she thought I had been trying to sponge on her; because I said something about having no dresses for the Commem. balls, even if I wanted to ‘come out’ then—which I don’t!—and she straightaway offered to give me that dress in Brandon’s. And I was cross, and behaved like a fiend. And afterwards Connie said she was awfully sorry if she’d hurt my feelings.” And suddenly Nora’s brown eyes filled with tears. “Well, you get on with her,” said Alice, with fresh impatience—“and I don’t. That’s all there is to it. Now do go away and let me get on with the hat.” That night, after Connie had finished her toilet for the night and was safely in bed, with a new novel of Fogazzaro before her and a reading lamp beside her, she suddenly put out her arms, and took Annette’s apple-red countenance—as the maid stooped over her to straighten the bed-clothes—between her two small hands. “Netta, I’ve had a real bad day!” “And why, please, my lady?” said Annette rather severely, as she released herself. “First I had a quarrel with Nora—then some boring people came to lunch—then I had a tiresome ride—and now Aunt Ellen has been pointing out to me that it’s all my fault she has to get a new dress, because people will ask me to dinner-parties. I don’t want to go to dinner-parties!” And Connie fell back on her pillows, with a great stretch, her black brows drawn over eyes that still smiled beneath them. “It’s very ungrateful of you to talk of a tiresome ride—when that gentleman took such pains to get you a nice horse,” said Annette, still tidying and folding as she moved about the room. Constance watched her, her eyes shining absently as the thoughts passed through them. At last she said: “Do come here, Annette!” Annette came, rather unwillingly. She sat down on the end of Constance’s bed, and took out some knitting from her pocket. She foresaw a conversation in which she would need her wits about her, and some mechanical employment steadied the mind. “Annette, you know,” said Constance slowly, “I’ve got to be married some time.” “I’ve heard you say that before.” Annette began to count some stitches. “Oh, it’s all very well,” said Constance, with amusement—“you think you know all about me, but you don’t. You don’t know, for instance, that I went to ride over a week ago with a young man, without telling you, or Aunt Ellen, or Uncle Ewen, or anybody!” She waited to see the effect of her announcement. Annette did appear rather startled. “I suppose you met him on the road?”