July."

"Is papa going to have the same house he had last year?"

"Oh, yes; but he's having it all differently furnished. He means to buy
it, I think. And I'm to have a music-room opening out of my bedroom, in
pale green! Won't it be lovely?"

"Yes," said Felicity, "lovely. And ... what did you say you thought of
Bertie Wilton? There's something I rather like about his face."

"Yes, I know what it is--he's very good-looking. Not only that, he might
be--well, rather too much of a good thing, if you know what I mean. I
wouldn't flirt with him, Felicity."

"I know you wouldn't, darling." Felicity smiled.

"You don't really, I know! It's only fun. Besides, people only love
once. You would never care for any one but Chetwode."

"Care! I should think not. But Bertie Wilton's amusing. And he knows
simply everything. He's a perfectly brilliant gossip. What do you think
is the latest thing about the Valettas and Guy Scott?"

Mrs. Ogilvie and Bob preferred the restaurant; Wilton accepted by
telephone, telegraphing afterwards to know if it was all right. A
_tete-a-tete_ dinner on so short an acquaintance with the most
fascinating of hostesses seemed to him almost too great a privilege to
be real. Afterwards she told his fortune by cards and he told hers by
palmistry.

"You don't tell me all," she said.

"If I told you all--all you are to me--I suppose you would ring for a
glass of iced-water again?" said he.

"Oh, no, I shouldn't. I am in a very good temper to-night," said
Felicity, laughing.

She had a telegram announcing Chetwode's arrival by the 9.15. She had
not mentioned it.

Bertie Wilton looked at her. She seemed rather nervous. He persuaded
himself not to go too far again, but it was really rather wonderful that
she had, after the iced-water incident, asked him to spend the evening
with her.

They had music. He had a voice, a way of singing, and a choice of songs
that had often been most useful to him in the beginning of his social
and sentimental career. But he was surprised to see that while he was
singing something about "my dream, my desire, my despair" she was
standing in front of the looking-glass making play with a powder-puff as
if he wasn't present, and then appeared to be listening at the door.

He came from the piano and she thanked him with an absent-minded warmth.

Incautiously he said, "It's just what you are, 'My dream.' Will you tell
me something? But I shall be in disgrace if I ask."