The Duttons were invited for a week; also Colonel Fane and Captain Vavasour.  Cecil became restless and excited as the day approached.  The sight of Bluebell would cruelly re-open old wounds, and she had never met Vavasour (who had brought back the slain body of her lover) since the Crimea.  And he would talk to her about it, she was sure, for Jack had long ago fathomed their ill fated attachment.  Altogether, it was a relief that other guests were coming to dinner, for they were all too intimate in one way and too far apart in another—­a connecting thread seeming to run through all their lives.  Jack, an old love of Bluebell’s, Dutton, whom she had nursed through deadly peril, and Fane, only prevented being a declared suitor by systematic absence of reciprocity on her side.  Well it was a mercy they all came in owl-light, scarcely dusk enough for candles, but pleasantly veiling countenances not too much under command.

Bluebell and Cecil had determined beforehand that they must embrace, and mutually dreaded it.  It was not, however, such a blanc-mange affair as osculation among ladies often is, for they were both agitated by too vivid memories.  Bluebell’s feelings were pleasantly diverted by recognising Jack—­blushing with delight like the boy he still was.  Somehow, he was the only one of the party she felt entirely at ease with, and found herself, as of old, chattering and laughing at as much as with him, just as if three sorrow-laden years had never intervened.

Dutton contrived to get by Cecil at dinner, though he had not taken her down, and their conversation was sufficiently interesting to make them forget their appointed partners.

“And you are quite restored to favour?” Cecil was saying, “and the uncle not half so implacable as you expected?”

“I don’t know about that,” cried Harry.  “He has altered to me, I think.  Bluebell is all the rage now, she actually is admitted into his sanctum every morning, to read him the papers.  I shouldn’t wonder if she turned out Queen Regnante and I were only Prince Consort!”

Cecil, I think, liked Dutton much better than his wife, with whom it was hard to resume old relations.  Besides, she seemed now quite the favourite of Fortune, with every difficulty and hardship smoothed away, and to those who have suffered, it is harder to rejoice with those who do rejoice than to weep with those who weep.

So Bluebell was happier alone with Mrs. Rolleston when the men were hunting or out of the way.  Dutton once ventured to question Cecil about Fane, whose hopeless passion was evident to every one in the house.  She looked vexed, disconsolate, and gave her usual answer, that there was nothing in it, and never would be.

Dutton gently tried to combat this assertion.  He had heard all about Bertie, but of course thought it was useless grieving over spilt milk; that time enough had passed since then; and that she had far better marry and forget.