began to flag? Cecil's counter, with her
excellent and expensive wares, and her own dignified propriety, was
far less popular than those where the goods were cheaper and the
saleswomen less inaccessible, and she was not only disappointed at
her failure, but vexed when told that the articles must be raffled
for. She could not object, but it seemed an unworthy end for what
had cost her so much money and pains to procure, and it was not
pleasant to see Mrs. Duncombe and Miss Moy hawking the tickets
about, like regular touters, nor the most beautiful things drawn by
the most vulgar and tasteless people.

Miss Moy had around her a court of 'horsey' men who were lounging
away the day before the races, and who had excited her spirits to a
pitch of boisterousness such as dismayed Mrs. Duncombe herself when
her attempts at repression were only laughed at.

Somehow, among these adherents, there arose a proposal for the
election of a queen of beauty, each gentleman paying half-a-crown
for the right of voting. Miss Moy bridled and tried to blush. She
was a tall, highly-coloured, flashing-eyed brunette, to whom a
triumph would be immense over the refined, statuesque, severe Miss
Vivian, and an apple-blossom innocent-looking girl who was also
present, and though Lady Tyrrell was incontestably the handsomest
person in the room, her age and standing had probably prevented her
occurring to the propounders of the scheme.

The design was taking shape when young Strangeways, who was willing
to exchange chaff with Gussie Moy, but was gentleman enough to feel
the indecorum of the whole thing, moved across to his sister, and
muttered, "I say, Con, they are getting up that stupid trick of
election of a queen of beauty. Does Lady Tyrrell know it?"

"Wouldn't it be rather fun?"

"Horrid bad form, downright impudence. Mother would squash it at
once. Go and warn one of them," signing with his head.

Constance made her way to Eleonora, who had already been perplexed
and angered by more than one critical stare, as one and another man
loitered past and gazed intrepidly at her. She hurried at once to
her sister, who was sitting passively behind her counter as if
wearied out, and who would not be stirred to interference. "Never
mind, Lenore, it can't be helped. It is all for the cause, and to
stop it would be worse taste, fitting on the cap as an acknowledged
beauty, and to that I'm not equal."

"It is an insult."

"Never fear, the