Still, I do not go to bed. Her story has affected me deeply, and sets me pondering. I have seen so little real _bona fide_ sentiment in my home life that probably it interests me in a greater degree than it would most girls of my own age differently reared. I sit before my fire, my hands clasped round my knees, for half an hour, cogitating as to ways and means of reuniting my friend to her beloved--for that Lord Chandos has ceased to regard her with feelings of ardent affection is a thing I neither can nor will believe. I am still vaguely planning, when Marmaduke, coming in, orders me off to my slumbers, declaring my roses will degenerate into lilies if I persist in keeping such dissipated hours. CHAPTER XXI. "Billy is coming to-day," is the first thought that occurs to me as I spring from my bed on the morning of the nineteenth and run to the window. It is a glorious day outside, sunny and warm and bright, full of that air of subdued summer that always belongs to September. The flowers below are waving gently in the soft breeze; the trees have a musical rustle they surely lacked on yesterday; the very birds in the air and among the branches are crying, "Coming, coming, coming!" Soon I shall see him; soon I shall welcome him to my own home. Alas, alas! that so many hours must pass before he can enter my expectant arms! That detestable "Bradshaw" has decreed that no train but the half-past five shall bring him. Bebe, who is immensely amused at my impatience, declares herself prepared to fall in love with Billy on the spot, the very moment she sees him. "I am passionately attached to boys," she says, meeting me in the corridor about half-past three (I am in such a rambling, unsettled condition as compels me to walk from pillar to post all day); "I like their society--witness my devotion to Chips--and they like mine. But for all that, I shall be nowhere with your Billy; you have another guest in your house who will take his heart by storm." "Whom do you mean?" "Lady Blanche Going. I never yet saw the boy who could resist her. Is not that odd? Is she not the last person one would select as a favorite with youth?" "I hope he will _not_ like her," I cry, impulsively; then, feeling myself, without cause, ungracious, "that is--of course I do not mean that--only--" "Oh, yes, you do," says Miss Beatoun, coolly; "you would be very sorry if Billy were to waste his affection on her. So would I. You detest her; so do I. Why mince matters? But for all that your boy will be her sworn slave, or I am much mistaken. If only to spite _you_, she will make him her friend. "But why? What have I ever done to her?" "Nothing; only it is intolerable somebody should admire you so much." And with a mischievous glance, Miss Beatoun disappears round the corner.