Vera blushed, and looked very pretty and modest, making not much answer as she retreated among her contemporaries to show them her ring, a hoop of pearls, which Wilfred insisted were Roman pearls, fishes’ eyes, most appropriate; but Flapsy felt immeasurably older than Wilfred to-day, and able to despise his teasing, though Hubert Delrio was not present, and indeed Wilfred was not disposed to bestow much of his attention upon her, having much more inclination to beset his cousin, Lady Phyllis, who surely ought to perceive that he had attained at least the same height as his brother Jasper, and could, in his absence, pose as the young man of the household. Phyllis had not much to say to him, nor after the first to Vera, though she duly admired the ring so exultantly shown, and accepted the assurance that Hubert was the dearest fellow in the world. But there was no getting any condolence out of her upon the misery of having to wait four whole years. She said, “It was a very good thing! There was her cousin Gillian, who had insisted on waiting three years to finish her education.” “Oh, but dear Hubert likes me as I am,” simpered Vera. “You might wish that he should find more in you to like. Gillian,” said Phyllis, coming up to her and Agatha, “I want you to assure Vera that four years is not such a great trial in waiting.” “It is what I have been trying to persuade her,” said Agatha; “she is hardly seventeen.” “And I would not have been married at seventeen for anything,” said Gillian to the pouting Vera. “I want to be more worth having.” Vera did not like it, she had heard the like at home, and she fell back upon Valetta, while the others walked on. “Poor little Flapsy!” said Agatha, “I do hope this engagement may make more of a woman of her.” “My father was very much struck by Mr. Delrio,” said Phyllis, “both as artist and personally.” “You must be glad of the time for putting her up to his level,” said Gillian. “Do you think such things are to be done?” asked Agatha. “Yes,” said Phyllis stoutly. “You may not make her able to be a Senior Wrangler—(Oh you are Oxford!)—or capable of it, like this Gillyflower; but you can get the stuff into her that makes a sound sensible wife.” Gillian caught a little hopeless sigh of “_can_,” and answered it with, “When all this effervescence is blown off, then will be the time for working at the substance, and she may be all the better wife—especially for the artist temperament, if she is of the homely sort.” “How angry she would be if she heard you say so!” returned Agatha. “Yet certainly I do feel relieved that wifehood is to be my poor Flapsy’s portion, for she is not of the sort that can stand alone and make her own way.” “There will always be plenty of such women in the world,” said Gillian. “So much the better for the world,” retorted Phyllis, who had never shown any symptoms of exclusive devotion to any one of the other sex, except her father.