"Is it?" answers Essie, guiltily conscious that a little cold water is the only glycerine-cream needed to effect the cure of _her_ chapped face. "Have you seen St. John since he came?" asks Constance, presently; the links that connect his name with her artificially-reddened countenance being painfully evident to Miss Craven. "No--yes--no, not to speak to." "You were out when he came, I suppose, weren't you?" "No, I was upstairs." "I have not told him you are here; it will be a surprise to him to meet an old acquaintance." Esther gives an involuntary start of dismay. "Why did not you tell him?" she asks, hurriedly. "_I!_ Oh, I don't know; I have the worst memory in the world. I have intended to tell him in every letter, but I have always forgotten." "Will he stay here long?" asks Miss Blessington's unsuccessful rival, in a low voice, bending down her head. "I don't know, I'm sure; he is always so full of engagements, and I never allow him to refuse a good invitation on my account." "Will your wedding be soon, Miss Blessington?" (spoken quietly and firmly). "I really have not thought about it" (with a little yawn, as if the subject were rather a wearisome one than otherwise); "'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' I don't suppose I shall be given more than two or three months longer; some time in the spring, I daresay." "I always think it is a good omen when people are married in the spring," says the young companion, with a dreamy smile; "when the world is beginning all over again, it is right that people's new life should begin with it." "Do you think so? I don't much believe in omens. May is certainly the best time for Paris. I have set my heart upon seeing the Grand Prix run for; unfortunately, St. John hates Paris." "All men hate all towns, I think, except American men; 'good Americans when they die go to Paris,' somebody said, didn't they?" "Did they? It was rather irreverent, don't you think? By-the-by, some one told me in the summer that you were engaged to be married; is it true? I hope you won't think me impertinent for asking." "Not in the least; but it is not true." "Really? How odd it is the way those sort of reports get about!" "Very odd; people are singularly fond of pairing their neighbours, but they don't often hit upon the right pairs." "Perhaps not," answers Constance, closing her eyes, and looking bored, whereupon Esther lapses into silence. Every Jack has his Jill; but my Jill is probably in Siberia or Hong Kong, and yours is close at hand; so I marry yours, and you, being in Siberia or Hong Kong, marry mine, and we both rue it to our dying day. CHAPTER XXXIII.