“DEAR CECILY,--You will wonder who is addressing you in this familiar fashion, and even when you look at the signature, I wonder whether you will remember your old school-fellow--Philippa Burton? I am writing because, after this week, I shall be a near neighbor of yours. I have broken down a little, over my work; my doctor has ordered me country air, and I find the village to which he is sending me is _your_ village! Sheepcote is so easy of access to town that I can run up when it is absolutely necessary, do as much work as I am allowed, and, I hope, renew my friendship with you. I met your husband yesterday at Lady Wilmot’s. What a charming man he is, and how proud you must be of him.” “Spare my blushes,” interpolated Kingslake, in a lazy voice. Cecily concluded-- “May I sign myself, as in old days, “Affectionately yours, “PHILIPPA BURTON.” She folded the letter deliberately, and replaced it in its envelope. “Well, you can look after her a little, can’t you?” observed Kingslake. “You might see about getting her rooms, perhaps? Wouldn’t old Mrs. Green take her?--or the Watford woman? But this isn’t very amusing for Mrs. Summers, I’m afraid.” He turned to her politely. “Oh, on the contrary,” she answered, “these bright, brave young women who work for their living, and at intervals have nervous breakdowns, interest me enormously. It’s a new type to me.” Kingslake’s face darkened at her flippant tone. “Ah! you happy married women who are shielded from the world are rather slow to understand some of the truths of life,” he observed, a note of indignation struggling through the suavity of his tone. “Is it only the lies we encounter then--we happy married women?” she returned, lightly. “That doesn’t speak well for the men who shield us!” Cecily rose. “Come,” she said, “it’s nearly dinner-time.” Upstairs, in the spare room to which she showed her friend, Rose turned round with sudden vehemence. “Little devil!” she exclaimed, pointing to the letter her cousin still held. “It’s a feminine masterpiece. Not one untrue statement, yet a lie from beginning to end.” Cecily was silent. “Don’t!” she said at last, under her breath. “I’ve got to get through the evening.” Rose glanced at her, and, without speaking again, let her go. * * * * * When Cecily entered her bedroom, Kingslake opened his dressing-room door. “Miss Burton told me she was a school-fellow of yours,” he began. “Were you great friends?” “Not particularly,” returned Cecily, taking her tea-gown from the wardrobe. There was silence for a moment. “She seems a nice sort of girl,” he continued, tentatively. “She used to be pretty,” said Cecily, staring at herself in the glass as she took down her hair. “Is she pretty now?”