g your
fellows, Mottie?"

"Unless Grainger. You know Grainger, Lady Stafford?"

"Indeed I do. What! is he stationed with you now? He must have
re-joined very lately."

"Only the other day. Would he be of any use to you?"

"The very greatest."

"What! Spooney?" says Tedcastle, laughing. "I don't believe he could
climb a ladder to save his life. Think of his pretty hands and his
sweet little feet."

"And his lisp,--and his new eyeglass," says Stafford.

"Never mind; I _will_ have him here," declares Cecil, gayly. "In
spite of all you say, I positively adore that Grainger boy."

"You seem to have a passion for fools," says Sir Penthony, a little
bitterly, feeling some anger toward her.

"And you seem to have a talent for incivility," retorts she, rather
nettled. This ends the conversation.

Nevertheless Mr. Grainger is asked to come and give what assistance he
can toward adorning Herst, which, when they take into consideration the
ladylike whiteness of his hands and the general imbecility of his
countenance, is not set at a very high value.

He is a tall, lanky youth, with more than the usual allowance of bone,
but rather less of intellect; he is, however, full of ambition and
smiles, and is amiability itself all round. He is also desperately
addicted to Lady Stafford. He has a dear little moustache, that
undergoes much encouragement from his thumb and first finger, and he
has a captivating way of saying "How charming!" or, "Very sweet," to
anything that pleases him. And, as most things seem to meet his
approbation, he makes these two brilliant remarks with startling
frequency.

To Cecil he is a joy. In him she evidently finds a fund of amusement,
as, during the three days it takes them to convert the ball-room,
tea-room, etc., into perfumed bowers, she devotes herself exclusively
to his society.

Perhaps the undisguised chagrin of Sir Penthony and Talbot Lowry as
they witness her civility to Grainger goes far to add a zest to her
enjoyment of that young man's exceedingly small talk.

After dinner on the third day all is nearly completed. A few more
leaves, a few more flowers, a wreath or two to be distributed here and
there, is all that remains to be done.

"I hate decorating in October," Cecil says. "There is such a dearth of
flowers, and the gardeners get so greedy about the house plants. Every
blossom looks as if it had been made the most of."

"Well, I don't know," replies Mr. Grainger, squeezing