"Oh, nothing in particular," she said, "at least nothing you would be interested in. She was telling me about her brother, who used to be a cripple till Beverly Randolph's uncle cured him. He is a fine, strong-looking boy now--did you notice him?" "Yes. Did you know their uncle was a lord?" "Is he?" said Marjorie indifferently, and once more relapsed into silence. Elsie regarded her cousin in evident surprise. "What's the matter, Marjorie?" she inquired curiously. "You seem to be in the dumps, and I'm sure I can't see why. You really danced much better than I supposed you could. You're not jealous, are you?" "Jealous," repeated Marjorie, stupidly, "what about?" "Why, your poem, of course, because you didn't get more votes. It really wasn't bad; I heard several of the girls say so." "Of course I wasn't jealous," said Marjorie, indignantly. "I never dreamed of getting many votes. I think people were very kind to vote for me at all; it was just silly doggerel." "Well, you needn't fly into a temper even if you're not jealous," laughed Elsie. "Do you know you never congratulated me on my poem. I think people thought it rather queer, when every one was saying how much they liked it." "I couldn't," said Marjorie in a low voice. "Why not?" demanded Elsie, sharply. She was evidently startled but beyond a slightly heightened color, she showed no sign of embarrassment. "I'll tell you when we get home," whispered Marjorie, with a glance at Hortense, who was sitting in the opposite seat. Not another word was spoken until the carriage drew up before the big hotel. Mr. and Mrs. Carleton were out, and the girls went at once to their rooms, without exchanging the usual good-nights. Marjorie's heart was beating painfully fast, and her cheeks were burning, but she did not waver in her determination to "have it out" with Elsie before they went to bed. So instead of beginning to undress, she sat down to wait until Hortense should have finished waiting on her cousin and gone away. She had, with some difficulty, at last succeeded in convincing the maid that she did not require assistance herself. "Elsie will be terribly angry," she told herself mournfully, "and it will be very horrid and uncomfortable, but it wouldn't be honest not to let her know I recognized that poem. Perhaps she can explain--oh, I do hope she can--and then I can tell Beverly, and everything will be all right again." She heard the outer door close behind Hortense, and was just about to go to her cousin's room, when her door was pushed unceremoniously open and Elsie herself came in. Elsie's cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were flashing, but whether with anger or excitement Marjorie could not tell.