rne examined it with some curiosity.

"I have never seen such beautiful diamonds," she said simply.

There were other presents to be opened and examined. For the invitations
had not been sent out, and many were willing to pay handsomely for the
privilege of being mentioned among the guests. It is, one finds, after
the invitations have been issued that the presents begin to fall off.

But on this particular morning the other presents fell on barren ground.
Millicent only half heeded them. She could not lay the diamond crescent
finally aside. Some people have the power of imparting a little piece
of their individuality to their letters, and even to a commonplace
gift. Sir John was beginning to have this power over Millicent. She
was rapidly falling into a stupid habit of feeling uneasy whenever she
thought of him. She was vaguely alarmed at his uncompromising adherence
to the position he had assumed. She had never failed yet to work
her will with men--young and old--by a pretty persistence, a steady
flattery, a subtle pleading manner. But Sir John had met all her wiles
with his adamantine smile. He would not openly declare himself an
enemy--which she argued to herself would have been much nicer of him. He
was merely a friend of her aunt's, and from that contemplative position
he never stepped down. She could not quite make out what he was "driving
at," as she herself put it. He never found fault, but she knew that his
disapproval of her was the result of long and careful study. Perhaps in
her heart--despite all her contradictory arguments--she knew that he was
right.

"I wonder," she said half-aloud, taking up the crescent again, "why he
sent it to me?"

Lady Cantourne, who was writing letters at a terrible rate, glanced
sharply up. She was beginning to be aware of Millicent's unspoken fear
of Sir John. Moreover, she was clever enough to connect it with her
niece's daily increasing love for the man who was soon to be her
husband.

"Well," she answered, "I should be rather surprised if he gave you
nothing."

There was a little pause, only broken by the scratching of Lady
Cantourne's quill pen.

"Auntie!" exclaimed the girl suddenly, "why does he hate me? You have
known him all your life--you must know why he hates me so."

Lady Cantourne shrugged her shoulders.

"I suppose," went on Millicent with singular heat, "that some one has
been telling him things about me--horrid things--false things--that I am
a flirt