" said the General, "I've just made a charming arrangement.
Lady Deane and Sir Roger start for Paris to-day week, and we're going
with them. You said you'd like another week here."

"It's charming our being able to go together, isn't it?" said Lady
Deane. Dora's face did not express rapture, yet she liked the Deanes
very much.

"Oh, but----" she began.

"Well?" asked her father.

"I rather want to go a little sooner."

"I'm afraid," said Lady Deane, "we shan't get Roger to move before
then. He's bent on seeing the tennis tournament through. When did you
want to go, Dora?"

"Well, in fact--to--night."

"My dear Dolly, what a weathercock you are! It's impossible. I'm
dining with the Grand Duke on Monday. You must make up your mind to
stay, young woman."

"Oh, please, papa----."

"But why do you want to go?" asked the General, rather impatiently.

Dora had absolutely no producible reason for her eagerness to go. And
yet--Oh, if they only knew what was at stake! "We're to be married in a
fortnight!" She could see the words dancing before her eyes. And she
must waste a precious week here!

"Do you want me, Miss Bellairs?" asked Charlie Ellerton, coming up to
them.

"Yes. I want--oh, I want to go to Rumpelmayer's."

"All right. Come along. I'm delighted to go with you."

They walked off in silence. Dora was in distress. She saw that the
General was immovable.

Suddenly Charlie turned to her and remarked,

"Well, it's all over with me, Miss Bellairs."

"What? How do you mean?"

"My chance is gone. They're to be married in a fortnight. I had a
letter to say so this morning."

Dora turned suddenly to him.

"Oh, but it's too extraordinary," she cried. "So had I!"

"What?"

"Why, a letter to say they were to be married in a fortnight."

"Nonsense!"

"Yes. Mr. Ellerton--who--who is your friend?"

"Her name's Mary Travers."

"And who is she going--to marry?"

"Ah! She hasn't told me that."

A suspicion of the truth struck them both. Charlie produced his letter.

"She writes," he said, showing the postmark, "from Dittington."

"It is! It is!" she cried. "It must be Mary Travers that Mr. Ashforth
is going to marry!"

"Is that your friend?"

"Yes. Is she pretty, Mr. Ellerton?"

"Oh, awfully. What sort of a fellow is he?"

"Splendid!"

"Isn't it a deuced queer thing?"

"Most extraordinary. And when we told one another we never thought----."

"How could we?"

"Well, no, we couldn'