“May I find one for you,” said Mr. Duckworth, quite forgetting that he “must see the fellows,” and thinking only of his good luck in falling in with such a “stunning-looking girl.” He himself had changed into flannels, and with his athletic figure, his brown, healthy face, brown eyes and hair, was a thoroughly presentable young man. He found a place with ease for his party, a dozen people offering to make room for them. As Mr. Duckworth let his eyes rest upon the young lady at his side his sense of good-fortune grew upon him, for Nora in white pique skirt and batiste blouse smartly girdled with a scarlet patent leather belt, in white canvas shoes and sailor hat, made a picture good to look at. Her dark olive brown skin, with rich warm colour showing through the sunburn of her cheeks, her dark eyes, and her hair for once “done up in style” under Kathleen's supervision, against the white of her costume made her indeed what her escort thought, “a stunning-looking girl.” Usually careless as to her appearance, she had yielded to Kathleen's persuasion and had “gotten herself up to kill.” No wonder her friends of both sexes followed her with eyes of admiration, for no one envied Nora, her frank manner, her generous nature, her open scorn at all attempts to win admiration, made her only friends. “Bring your mother over here,” cried Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, who rejoiced exceedingly in the girl's beauty. “Why, how splendidly you are looking to-day,” she continued in a more confidential tone as the party grouped themselves about her. “What have you been doing to yourself? You are looking awfully fine.” “Am I?” said Nora, exceedingly pleased with herself. “I am awfully glad. It is all Kathleen's doing. I got me the belt and the hat new for this show.” “Very smart, that belt, my dear,” said her friend. “I rather fancy it myself, and Kathleen would do up my hair in this new way,” said Nora, removing her hat that the full glory of her coiffure might appear. “Do you like it?” “Perfectly spiffing!” ejaculated Mr. Duckworth, who had taken a seat just behind her chair. Nora threw him a challenging glance that made that young man's heart skip a beat or two as all the excitements of the match had not. “Are you a judge?” said the girl, tipping her saucy chin at him. “Am I? With four sisters and dozens of cousins to practise on, I fancy I might claim to be a regular bench show expert.” “Then,” cried Nora with sudden animation, “you are the very man I want.” “Thank you so much,” replied Mr. Duckworth fervently. “I mean, perhaps you can advise me. Now as you look at me--” The young man's eyes burned into hers so that with all her audacity Nora felt the colour rising in her face. “Which would you suggest as the most suitable style for me, the psyche knot or the neck roll?” “I beg your pardon? I rather--” “Or would you say the French twist?” “Ah, the French twist--” “Or simply marcelled and pomped?” “I am afraid--” “Or perhaps the pancake or the coronet?”