Cristiane was almost hidden behind the high silver urn and the tea and coffee-pots. Ismay, as she began to drink her coffee, moved her chair so that she could see the lovely face under its crown of gold-red hair. She waited till Thomas, the old butler, had supplied her with hot cakes and cold game, and taken himself silently out of the room. Then she laughed as she caught Cristiane’s eye. “It is rather different from school here,” she observed frankly. “Do you think I might come and pinch you to see if you’re real?” “Indeed I don’t,” retorted Miss Le Marchant. “But I don’t see why you didn’t like school. I found lessons with a governess very dull. Don’t you miss the girls?” Ismay made a mental review of them; ugly, bad-mannered, eager to curry favors with the principal by carrying tales of the girl whose bills were unpaid. “I hated them,” she returned candidly. “You would have, too. Some of them had warts on their hands and dropped their h’s.” “Oh, don’t!” Cristiane gave a little shriek, and covered her ears. “Why did you stay there?” Ismay caught the truth on her lips and kept it back. “We had no money for a better school; mother never knew how horrid it was,” she said quietly. “The nastiest thing about it was that all the first class were in love with some dreadful man or other; one used to be wild about the postman. I hate men.” “I don’t know any,” Cristiane said calmly, taking a large bite of muffin, with her white teeth showing in a faultless half-circle. “What!” Ismay exclaimed. “Why, there was a lovely young man here the first day we came.” Cristiane reddened. “That was only Miles Cylmer,” she said scornfully. “I’ve known him for ages, but he is about as exciting as--as Thomas!” remembering her own comparison of Mr. Cylmer to that worthy man. “He’s only a neighbor, and a friend of father’s.” “Oh!” said Miss Trelane demurely. “He is good-looking.” “I never noticed him especially. He is often here when father is at home.” The other girl made a mental comment, but she only said: “I suppose he wouldn’t come when you were alone?” Cristiane reflected. Miles had not been near her for a week, and, in spite of her guests, she had missed him. “He has more amusing things to do, I dare say,” she said smartly. It was so silly of Miles not to come just because she had refused him; selfish, too, for there was a distinct blank in her afternoon rides without him. Ismay smiled. “I believe you were horrid to him and told him not to come,” she observed shrewdly. “Now, weren’t you?” “I don’t take enough interest in him,” said the other loftily. “I don’t take any interest in any one but father. I wish he would come home.” She looked out of the window, where the morning sun streamed in, over the wide stretch of wintry park and great beech-trees. “This is a hunting-morning; would you like to drive to the meet?”