rather humble
courtesy, "because then I am more likely to remember my way. I have so
much difficulty in knowing my way. I still lose myself sometimes in the
park at Whitney. I did once this winter with--my brother Guy's friend,
Mr. Decies. The boys always tease me about losing my way. Even papa
says I have no bump of locality. I am afraid I am stupid about that. My
governesses always complained that I was a very thoughtless child."

Lady Constance unfolded her hands. Her timid, engagingly vague gaze
dwelt appealingly upon Richard's handsome face.

"I think, perhaps, if you do not mind, I will go now," she said. "I
must bid Lady Calmady good-bye. We dine at Lady Combmartin's to-night.
You dine there too, don't you? And my sister Louisa may want me to
drive with her, or write some notes, before I dress."

"Wait half a minute," Dickie said. "I've got something for you. Let's
see---- Oh! there it is!"

Raising himself he stood, for a moment, on the seat of the chair,
steadying himself with one hand on the back of it, and reached a
little, silver-paper covered parcel from the neighbouring table. Then
he slipped back into a sitting position, drew the silken blanket up
across his thighs, and tossed the little parcel gently into Lady
Constance Quayle's lap.

"I as near as possible let you go without it," he said. "Not that it's
anything very wonderful. It's nothing--only I saw it in a shop in Bond
Street yesterday, and it struck me as rather quaint. I thought you
might like it. Why--but--Constance, what's the matter?"

For the girl's pretty, heart-shaped face had blanched to the whiteness
of her white dress. Her eyes were strained, as those of one who beholds
an object of terror. Not only her chin but her round, baby mouth
quivered. Richard looked at her, amazed at these evidences of
distressing emotion. Then suddenly he understood.

"I frighten you. How horrible!" he said.

But little Lady Constance had not suffered persistent training at the
hands of nurses, and governesses, and elder sisters, during all her
eighteen years of innocent living for nothing. She had her own small
code of manners and morals, of honour and duty, and to the requirements
of that code, as she apprehended them, she yielded unqualified
obedience, not unheroic in its own meagre and rather puzzle-headed
fashion. So that now, notwithstanding quivering lips, she retained her
intention of civility and entered immediate apology for her own
weakness