deed, had stretched her huge
length before the hearth, looking for all the world like a superb white
rug, and Rosalie Breeze was flat upon her stomach, her arms around the
dog's neck, her face nestled in the silky hair. Juno Gibson reclined
gracefully in a luxurious wicker chair, its gorgeous pink satin cushions
a perfect background for her dark loveliness--which no one understood
better than Juno herself. Helen Doolittle (most aptly named) was gazing
in simpering adoration upon Stella from a pillow-laden couch, and now
commented:

"Oh, Stella, what adorable hands you have. How do you keep them so
ravishingly white and your nails so absolutely faultless? I could cover
them with kisses, sweetheart."

Stella's laugh held wholesome ridicule of this rhapsody and she replied:

"Don't waste your emotion upon _my_ hands. Just save it until somebody
comes along who wished to cover _your_ hands with kisses--I mean some
one in masculine attire. For my part, I don't think I'd care to have a
girl try that experiment with me."

"Have you ever had a _boy_ cover your hands with kisses?" asked Helen
eagerly, starting from her position.

Stella, raised her head, looked at the simple, inconsequent, little
doll-faced blonde and with an odd smile said:

"Well, I could hardly have called him a boy."

"Oh, was he a man? A real _man_? Did he wear a moustache? Just think,
girls, of having a man's moustache brush the back of your hand as he
covered it with kisses. Oh, how terribly thrilling. Do tell us all about
it, Stella! I knew the moment I met you you must have had a romantic
history. Did your father find it out, and what did he say?"

"Yes, I told him all about it and he laughed at me," and again Stella
laughed her mystifying laugh.

"Oh, I'd just _adore_ having such a ravishing experience as that," said
Lily Pearl Montgomery from the window seat, "but how can one have any
thrilling experiences in a stupid old school! Now there are Polly and
Peggy; think of all they could tell us if they only would. You girls
must be fairly bursting with the most wonderful stories if you'd only
come down off your pedestals and tell us. _I_ think you're both too
tight for words. And all those darling cadets' photographs in your room.
You needn't try to make _me_ believe that 'Faithfully yours, Bubbles'
and 'Your chum, Ralph,' and 'For my Pilot, Captain Polly, Wheedles,' and
'For Peggy Stewart, Chatelaine, Happy,' don't mean a whole lot more."

"