"Exactly," agreed Eleanor. "Not only you or me, but girls. Take Cass, for instance; girls might just as well be broomsticks to Cass, all except Fan Loomis. Now, when Captain Phipps looks at you----" "He never would," said Rose; "he'd look straight over my head. I'll tell you who is a better example--Mr. Graham." Eleanor smiled reminiscently. "Oh, Sergeant Slim? _he's_ thrilled, all right! Always looks as if he couldn't wait a minute to hear what you are going to say next." "He's not as susceptible as he looks," Rose pronounced from her vantage-point of seniority. "He's just got a way with him that fools people. Cass says girls are always crazy about him, and that he never cares for any of them more than a week." "Much Cass knows about it!" said Cass's cousin, pulling on her long gloves. Then she dismissed the subject abruptly: "Rose, if I tell you something will you swear not to tell?" "Never breathe it." "Captain Phipps is coming up to Baltimore for the Easter vacation." "Does your grandmother know?" "I should say _not_. She's written Miss Hammond that I'm not to receive callers without permission, and that all suspicious mail is to be opened." "How outrageous! You tell Captain Phipps to send his letters to me; I'll get them to you. They'll never suspect my fine Italian hand, with my name and address on the envelope." Eleanor looked at her older cousin dubiously. "I hate to do underhand things like that!" she said crossly. "You wouldn't have to if they treated you decently. Opening your letters! The idea! I wouldn't stand for it. I'd show them a thing or two." Eleanor stood listlessly buttoning her glove, pondering what Rose was saying. "I wonder if I could get word to the Captain to-night?" she said. "Shall I really tell him to send the letters to you?" "No; tell him to bring them. I'm crazy to see what his nibs looks like." "He looks like that picture of Richard Mansfield downstairs--the one taken as _Beau Brummel_. He's the most fastidious man you ever saw, and too subtle for words." "He's terribly rich, isn't he?" "I don't know," said Eleanor indifferently. "His father is a Chicago manufacturer of some kind. Does Papa Claude think he is _very_ talented?" "Talented! He says he's one of the most gifted young men he ever met. They are hatching out some marvelous schemes to write a play together. Papa Claude is treading on air." "Bless his heart! Wouldn't it be too wonderful, Rose, if Captain Phipps should produce one of his plays? He's crazy about him." "You mean he's crazy about you." "Who said so?" "I don't have to be told. How about you, Nell? Are you in love with him?" Eleanor, taking a farewell look in the mirror, saw a tiny frown gather between her eyebrows. It was the second time that week she had been asked the question, and, as before, she avoided it. "Listen!" she said. "Who is that talking so loud downstairs?"