* * * * *

The muslin curtain beside her suddenly swelled out in a draught of air, and she put out her hand quickly to catch the French window lest it should swing to.  Some one had opened the door of the room.

“Did I blow you out of window?” said a girl’s voice; and there behind her, in a half-timid attitude, stood Betty Macdonald, a vision of white muslin, its frills and capes a little tossed by the wind, the pointed face and golden hair showing small and elf-like under the big shady hat.

“Oh, do come in!” said Marcella, shyly; “Lady Winterbourne will be in directly.”

“So Panton told me,” said Betty, sinking down on a high stool beside Marcella’s chair, and taking off her hat; “and Panton doesn’t tell me any stories now—­I’ve trained him.  I wonder how many he tells in the day?  Don’t you think there will be a special little corner of purgatory for London butlers?  I hope Panton will get off easy!”

Then she laid her sharp chin on her tiny hand, and studied Marcella.  Miss Boyce was in the light black dress that Minta approved; her pale face and delicate hands stood out from it with a sort of noble emphasis.  When Betty had first heard of Marcella Boyce as the heroine of a certain story, she had thought of her as a girl one would like to meet, if only to prick her somehow for breaking the heart of a good man.  Now that she saw her close she felt herself near to falling in love with her.  Moreover, the incident of the fight and of Miss Boyce’s share in it had thrilled a creature all susceptibility and curiosity; and the little merry thing would sit hushed, looking at the heroine of it, awed by the thought of what a girl only two years older than herself must have already seen of sin and tragedy, envying her with all her heart, and by contrast honesty despising—­for the moment—­that very happy and popular person, Betty Macdonald!

“Do you like being alone?” she asked Marcella, abruptly.

Marcella coloured.

“Well, I was just getting very tired of my own company,” she said.  “I was very glad to see you come in.”

“Were you?” said Betty, joyously, with a little gleam in her pretty eyes.  Then suddenly the golden head bent forward.  “May I kiss you?” she said, in the wistfullest, eagerest voice.

Marcella smiled, and, laying her hand on Betty’s, shyly drew her.

“That’s better!” said Betty, with a long breath.  “That’s the second milestone; the first was when I saw you on the Terrace.  Couldn’t you mark all your friendships by little white stones?  I could.  But the horrid thing is when you have to mark them back again!  Nobody ever did that with you!”

“Because I have no friends,” said Marcella, quickly; then, when Betty clapped her hands in amazement at such a speech, she added quickly with a smile, “except a few I make poultices for.”

“There!” said Betty, enviously, “to think of being really wanted—­for poultices—­or, anything!  I never was wanted in my life!  When I die they’ll put on my poor little grave—­