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appointment. Erminie makes a resolve. "I'll come, Phil," she says, holding out her hand. "But it will be so inconvenient!" "Never mind. I shall interest Eleanor in my things, and try to win her from the widow. Erminie Henderson _versus_ Giddy Mounteagle. What is the betting, Phil?" He grasps her hands, and wrings them heartily. "You are the best little woman that ever lived!" he says. CHAPTER VII. THE SHADOWS RISE AND FALL. "I am so sorry, Giddy, darling," Eleanor writes, "but I can't possibly go to town with you this afternoon, as Philip's cousin, Miss Henderson, has just arrived to stay, and her _fiance_, Nelson, is coming too. She is quite jolly, and I thought she would be horrid. Many thanks for sending on that silly little note from Mr. Quinton. Why did he address it to your house? I suppose he forgot 'Lyndhurst' though I told him the name. "Ever your devoted, "ELEANOR." "Dense little idiot!" sighs Giddy. "She cannot understand poor Carol's passion, and yet he kissed her in the hansom. It was like Eleanor to tell me. She always gives herself away. I pity those refreshingly young people who can never keep anything to themselves." Giddy waves up to the windows of Lyndhurst as she drives by. "Who is that little Jezebel?" asks Erminie. "My great friend, Mrs. Mounteagle," replies Eleanor. "Tell her to knock off blanc de perle," responds Miss Henderson, "she would be twice as good-looking." "I quite miss Erminie and Nelson," says Eleanor, glancing at her husband across the tea-table, with a bright smile. "They were most delightful people certainly." It is several weeks later, and Erminie and Nelson are honeymooning in foreign climes. "Yes, dear, and I really think we have been happier since their visit. They were so peaceful, so loving together; perhaps it was the force of good example." "I don't think there has been one cross word for a fortnight," says Eleanor, laughing. She piles up the silken pillows on the sofa beside her. "Come and sit here close by me, and we will have a little flirtation, like in the old days. Only you must imagine these brocade flowers are real red field poppies, and this sofa is a haycock, just at the back of Copthorne Farm. I can almost hear the lazy hum of the bees, and smell the fresh mown grass. I am not in a silk tea jacket, but my old blue cotton frock with the tear in the elbow, you remember I caught it on a nail b
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