conversation; that she seemed very much amused, and he at times a trifle embarrassed; and that both of them had apparently forgotten her existence.  Mrs. Kavanagh was continually coming to Sheila and trying to coax her back into the larger room, but in vain.  She would rather not sing any more that night.  She liked to look at flowers.  She was not tired at all, and she had already seen those wonderful photographs about which everybody was talking.

“Well, Sheila, how did you enjoy yourself?” said her husband as they were driving home.

“I wish Mr. Ingram had been there,” said Sheila.

“Ingram!  He would not have stopped in the place five minutes, unless he could play the part of Diogenes and say rude things to everybody all round.  Were you at all dull?”

“A little.”

“Didn’t somebody look after you?”

“Oh yes, many persons were very kind.  But—­but—­”

“Well?”

“Nobody seemed to be better off than myself.  They all seemed to be wanting something to do; and I am sure they were all very glad to come away.”

“No, no, no, Sheila.  That is only your fancy.  You were not much interested, that is evident; but you will get on better when you know more of the people.  You were a stranger—­that is what disappointed you—­but you will not always be a stranger.”

Sheila did not answer.  Perhaps she contemplated with no great hope or longing the possibility of her coming to like such a method of getting through an evening.  At all events, she looked forward with no great pleasure to the chance of her having to become friends with Mrs. Lorraine.  All the way home Sheila was examining her own heart to try to discover why such bitter feelings should be there.  Surely that girl was honest:  there was honesty in her eyes.  She had been most kind to Sheila herself.  And was there not at times, when she abandoned the ways and speech of a woman of the world, a singular coy fascination about her, that any man might be excused for yielding to, even as any woman might yield to it?  Sheila fought with herself, and resolved that she would cast forth from her heart those harsh fancies and indignant feelings that seemed to have established themselves there.  She would not hate Mrs. Lorraine.

As for Lavender, what was he thinking of, now that he and his young wife were driving home from their first experiment in society?  He had to confess to a certain sense of failure.  His dreams had not been realized.  Every one who had spoken to him had conveyed to him, as freely as good manners would admit, their congratulations and their praises of his wife.  But the impressive scenes he had been forecasting were out of the question.  There was a little curiosity about her on the part of those who knew her story, and that was all.  Sheila bore herself very well.  She made no blunders.  She had a good presence, she sang well, and every one could see that she was handsome, gentle and honest.