“I think,” said Cecil, “it is rather tiresome for ladies to have to stay in all day and receive, while the gentlemen go out calling.  We had a spread, of course—­luncheon, tea, coffee, everything.  One man, who had a large acquaintance, came before breakfast, and they were rushing in all day.  It would have been well enough if they were not in such a hurry; but they just swallowed a glass of wine, and the burden of all their remarks was, ’I have been to a dozen places already, and have about thirty or forty more to do.’”

“Could not you two young ladies make them linger over smiles and wine?” laughed Bertie.  “We are not such duffers at Montreal.”

“No, indeed.  I saw Bluebell give a man a scalding cup of coffee, with the most engaging smile.  There was a nervous glance at the clock.  ’Oh, thank you, Miss Leigh, how hot it is!  I shall never have time to drink it,’ just as if he had a train to catch.”

“They have an arrear of balls and dinners to call for; that is the only day in the year a good many ever can pay visits—­the civilians, I mean.”

The Colonel, who had now exhausted conversation with Miss Prosody, had leisure to observe the determined flirtation of young Vavasour with Bluebell.  That unformidable young person being only seventeen, of course looked upon him as a mere boy, and her chaffing manner was not at all to the Colonel’s taste, whose attention was drawn to it by an expressive glance from Miss Prosody; so he telegraphed to his wife, who soon signalled her female following from the room.

Bertie got to the door, and as Bluebell passed through last of the ladies, she again met that look of interest and admiration Du Meresq had practised so often.

Shyness hitherto had been no infirmity of this young Canadian; but Bertie somehow had mesmerized her into a state of consciousness—­it was a cobwebby kind of fetter, but the first she had worn.

“Come and talk to me Bluebell,” said Mrs. Rolleston, “as Cecil is so studious.”

The former glanced at her friend, and involuntarily whispered—­“How well she looks to-night!”

Cecil was sitting apart, utterly absent as it seemed, but her eyes were shining, and there was a soft brightness about her as she turned over the pages of a book.  It was “The Wanderer,”—­one that Bertie had brought with him.

Mrs. Rolleston agreed and interpreted it her own way.  Bluebell drew a long rocking-chair by her side, and they fell into a pleasant little talk.  Mrs. Rolleston always made a pet of this child; she was the best of step-mothers, but stood a little in awe of Cecil.

Du Meresq came in shortly before the rest; the elder girl did not even look up, but her face again lit.  He stood a l’Anglais, with his back to the fire, talking to his sister, and occasionally, though without any particular empressement, addressing Bluebell, who thought his voice sweeter than any man’s she had ever heard.  It made her unconsciously modulate her own, which as yet had the untuned accents of early girlhood; but the spell was on her, and she felt, for the first time, at a loss for words.  Yet when Mrs. Rolleston shortly after sent her to the piano, it was more of disappointment than a relief.  Some one was following to turn the leaves—­only Mr. Vavasour—­odious, officious boy!  Who wanted him?