"They don't know each other, and Giddy is so glad. It gives her nearly a fit to look at them." "Ah! yes, I remember Mrs. Hillier telling me she had not called." "Now you are beginning again. And just as we had made it up, too," putting her hand over Philip's mouth. "Well, I'll say no more. At least, I shall have the satisfaction of knowing you won't be with her to-night." "Poor Giddy!" sighs Eleanor as he leaves; "how she is misjudged!" "Mrs. Mounteagle," announces Sarah. "How do, dear?" cries the widow sweetly, pressing Eleanor's cheek. Then, as the door closes: "I don't like that maid of yours, she shows one in as if one were a dressmaker or sister of mercy, and always looks at me as if my bonnet were crooked. You really ought to get a man, it gives such a much better appearance to the place." "I do not believe Philip would have one." "My dear, a man is the last subject I should ever think of consulting my husband on. By-the-way, Eleanor, my _fiance_ has turned up again. You know he went abroad to grow, and was not to come back for six months, but three seem to have nearly killed him. He has had typhoid fever in Antwerp, and then took a trip to New York, where he got jaundice. I must introduce you next Sunday, he is going to drive down." "You never told me his name." "Didn't I? _Bertie_--Herbert Dallison." "Oh!" with an expressive intonation. "Is he fond of ices?" "Yes. How did you know?" "They are very unwholesome, and--and you said he had been ill." "You are going to the Hilliers' to-night," Mrs. Mounteagle says, unfolding a parcel on her lap. "You intend wearing your white silk, I believe." "Yes. It is good enough for them." "I should think so, the cut of the skirt is lovely, but I am not altogether satisfied with the severe bodice. I want you to wear this fichu of mine, it is a perfect gem." She holds out a cloud of spangled gauze. "How lovely!" cries Eleanor, flinging her arms round the widow's neck. "You're very welcome to it." "Philip is deserting me to-night," continues Eleanor--"business in London." "How dull you will be going and returning to your party alone. I know!" (her face lightening up as with some magic inspiration) "I'll come and stay the night with you, dear, see you dressed, and have a real good gossip up in your room about those stupid Hilliers afterwards." Philip's words return to Eleanor: "_At least you will not be together this evening._" Yet what can she do? Besides it will be such fun to have Giddy. So the plan is settled, and that evening Mrs. Mounteagle arrives in a flowing tea-gown, her maid unpacking a dainty dressing-bag with gold-topped ornaments, and hanging up a dress for the morning. Giddy sits in a low arm-chair watching Eleanor's toilette.