Eleanor was one of the older girls at Dobbs Ferry during Cynthia's first year at that boarding school. They had taken an immense liking to each other, which later blossomed into an intimate friendship. After her graduation she and Cynthia had kept up their correspondence without a break, and, true to her promise, given years before, she had left Berlin and journeyed to Washington to be present at Cynthia's début. After the death of her mother, Eleanor had been adopted by an indulgent uncle, Mr. William Fitzgerald, of New York, and on his death had inherited a comfortable fortune. In many ways the winter had brought numerous triumphs in its train, enough to spoil most natures. But Eleanor was too well poised to lose her head over adulation. She had sounded the depths of social pleasantries, and found them shallow. In every country she had visited all men had been only too ready to be at her beck and call--except one. The dreamy eyes hardened at the thought, and the soft lips closed firmly. She had made the advances, and he had not responded. A situation so unique in her experience had made an indelible impression. Angry with herself for even recalling so unpleasant an episode, she touched the bell beside the bed; then, placing her pillow in a more comfortable position, she leaned back and contemplated her surroundings with speculative eyes. Her individuality had stamped itself upon the whole room. A picture or two, far above the average, a few choice books, whose dainty binding indicated a taste and refinement quite unusual; one or two Chinese vases, old when the Revolutionary War began; an ivory carving of the Renaissance; a mirror in whose lustrous depths Venetian beauties had seen their own reflections hundreds of years ago. All these things gave sure indication of study and travel, and a maturity of thought and taste which, oddly enough, seemed rather to enhance Eleanor's natural charm. A discreet knock sounded on her door. "_Bon jour, Mademoiselle_," exclaimed the maid, entering with the breakfast tray. "_Bon jour_, Annette," responded Eleanor, rousing herself, then lapsing into English, which her maid spoke with but a slight accent. "Put the tray here beside me. Must I eat that egg?" she made a slight grimace. "But yes, Mademoiselle." The Frenchwoman stepped to the window and raised the shade. "Madame Truxton gave orders to Fugi to tell the cook that he must send you a more substantial breakfast. She does not approve of rolls and coffee. I think she wishes you to eat as she does." Eleanor shuddered slightly. "Did--did she have beefsteak and fried onions this morning?" she inquired. "But yes, Mademoiselle," Annette's pretty features dimpled into a smile, "and she ate most heartily." "Not another word, Annette, you take away my appetite. Is Mrs. Truxton waiting to see me?"