"I will if you like," return I, equably; and in silence as complete as when we set out we return to the hotel. When we arrive, every one is busy getting on his or her outdoor things. My sealskin jacket and velvet hat already adorn my person, so no convenient business of that kind comes to my aid to help me to carry of the confusion and secret fear that are consuming me. I stand somewhat apart from the rest, looking strangely like a culprit. Even Bebe, who is a sure partisan is so standing before a distant mirror, adjusting the most coquettish of head gears as to be unable to see me, while young Thornton chatters to her admiringly upon one side, and Lord Chandos glowers at her from the other. Presently some one approaches, and to my astonishment Sir James Handcock, with an unusual amount of energy in his eyes and manner, takes up a position near me, and actually volunteers a remark. "Remember I am old enough to be your father," he begins, abruptly, "and don't be angry with me. I feel that I must speak. I don't want to see you made unhappy. I want you to cut the whole thing. Flirtations however innocent were never meant for tender-hearted little girls like you." I am so utterly taken aback, so altogether surprised, that I even forget to blush, and can do nothing but stand staring at him in silent bewilderment. Sir James to deliver a lecture! Sir James to take upon him the part of Mentor! it is more than my brain can grasp at a moment's notice. Surely I have been guilty of something horrible, unpardonable, to shake him out of his taciturnity. Harriet, coming up at this juncture, hastens to assist me out of my dilemma. "Has he been scolding you?" she asks briskly, with her quick ready smile. "James, I won't have Phyllis frightened to death by a stern old moralist like you. Go and get things together; and if you meet a comfortable motherly gray shawl, remember it is mine." Thus dismissed, James, ever obedient, departs, casting a kindly glance at me as he goes. Harriet lays her hand lightly on my arm. "Don't look so horrified, child," she says. "James's voice, from continual disuse, has degenerated into a growl, I own, but it need not reduce you to insensibility. He is awkward, but he means well, as they say in the British drama. Come"--with a faint pressure--"try to look more cheerful, or people will begin to wonder and imagine all sorts of unlikely things. You have made a mistake; but then a mistake is not a crime." "What have I done?" I ask, rousing myself. "I only wanted to see the rink again, and 'Duke would not take me. He was unkind in his manner, and vexed me. Sir Mark offered to take charge of me, I believe I wanted to show 'Duke I could go in spite of him, but I never thought of--of anything else; and now 'Duke is so angry he will not even speak to me."