Dora smiles, her usual soft serene smile, untouched by coquetry that experience has taught me means so little--and raises one white hand in deprecation. Dora's hands are faultless, filbert-nailed, creamy-white, pink-tinged, with just sufficient blue tracery of the most delicate kind here and there to call attention to their beauty. "_Is_ Lady Ashurst all that you say?--so _very_ terrific? How unhappy you make me!" she murmurs, plaintively, demurely ignoring other parts of his speech. CHAPTER XXIV. Fresh and keen, and decidedly chilly, blows the October wind. The men have all deserted us, and gone out shooting. The women are scattered through the house. Crossing the hall and the smaller drawing-room, I meet no one, and entering the larger apartment beyond, seek my favorite seat in the bow-window, where, book in hand, I ensconce myself behind the curtains, and, stretching myself upon a lounge, prepare to be lazily happy. The lace draperies falling round me entirely conceal me from view; I can see right into the conservatory without turning my head, and the seductive breath of flowers stealing towards me adds one more thrill to my enjoyment. Steadily I turn page after page. I feel I am growing interested, a very little later I feel I am growing sleepy. My lids droop. Putting my book down, upon my lap, with of course the settled intention of taking it up again directly, I yawn mildly. The door opens: with a start I become aware of Bebe's entrance. To admit I am present means conversation--and conversation with this drowsy fit upon me means misery. I therefore keep breathless silence, and Bebe, all unconscious, saunters past me, basket and scissors in hand, goes into the conservatory. I watch her dreamily, as with a business-like air she drags the light garden-ladder forward, and, mounting, commences to clip my very choicest blossoms for her own secret purposes. One by one they fall into her basket. Has she no conscience? Or has she forgotten it is already October, and the flowers grow scarce? I confess to some faint indignation as I regard her, and have almost decided on rousing to remonstrate with her in person, when a firm but hasty footstep upon the gravel outside excites my curiosity. A moment later Lord Chandos pushes open the door of the conservatory, and, entering, stops short, his gaze fixed upon Miss Beatoun. As for Bebe, between looking suddenly round and surprise at his unexpected presence there, she loses all idea of balance, and is in the act of coming with undue hurry to the ground, when Lord Chandos, stepping quickly forward, catches her and lifts her lightly down. Perhaps he is a trifle longer in the performance of this deed than is strictly necessary. "Oh! how could you frighten one so?" exclaims Bebe, coloring, and speaking ungratefully, as it seems to me, considering he has just saved her from a heavy fall. "I thought you were out shooting with the others."