Harriet laughs maliciously, and pulls her Skye's ears; and, thus encouraged, our gentle Dora smiles. "It seems rude, though, not to inquire for her, does it not?" say I, with hesitation. "I think I will just run up and ask it there is nothing that I can do for her." So saying, I put down my work--a wonderful piece of imagination in the shape of a beaded collar for Cheekie, Bebe's fox-terrier, which ever since its arrival has evinced a decided preference for me beyond its mistress--and, going upstairs, knock at the door of the "round" room that Blanche occupies. "Come in," returns her ladyship's voice, carelessly, evidently thinking she is addressing one of the domestics. I turn the handle and enter. At the farther end of the room, robed in a pale blue dressing-gown richly trimmed with lace, sits Blanche, looking by no means so ill as I had expected to see her. Indeed, the clearness of her eyes and the general air of liveliness about her agree badly with her tale of a headache. She has before her a tiny writing-table, and in her hand a very elaborate pink sheet of note-paper, heavily monogrammed. It is covered with close writing, and as I open the door she is in the act of folding it. As her eyes meet mine, however, with a sudden want of presence of mind, scarcely worthy of her, she hesitates, and finally ends by putting it hastily between the leaves of her blotter. She has flushed slightly, and looks put out. Altogether, I cannot help seeing that my visit is as ill-timed as it is unwelcome. She rises to meet me, and in doing so throws a goodly amount of elegant languor into her face and form. "I was sorry to hear of your not feeling well," I hasten to say as sympathetically as I can. "I came to see if I could do anything for you." "So good of you"--with a weary smile--"so kind to take all this trouble! But, thank you, no. I am a perfect martyr to these attacks, and I find when seized with one that rest and entire freedom from conversation are my only cures. I have such a wretched head," putting her hand pathetically to her forehead. "At such times as these I am utterly useless, and the worst companion possible." "A headache must be a miserable thing," say I, thinking all the while how uncommonly well she bears hers. "Yes," resignedly. "You never have one, I suppose." "Oh, never; I hardly know what it means--the sensation you speak of. I am so desperately healthy, you see. I dare say it comes from living in the country all my life and never keeping late hours. Perhaps"--smiling--"when I get to London I shall learn all too soon." "I hope not, for your own sake." "I fear you will be terribly _ennuyee_ up here all by yourself. If you would come down to the library it would be so much more cheerful for you. There is a good lounge there; and you need not talk unless you wish it."