“I can’t make the girl out,” he soliloquized.  “She is aggravatingly pretty, plays very uncanny, unpleasant music, and looks at me with about as much interest as if I had called to tune the piano or regulate the clocks.  I wonder if she is expected to go to bed at ten!  I fancy there is a very stringent code of rules for a companion.  She was sitting in such a nice inviting corner, to.  Du Meresq seemed sloping off for a spoon; but when he doubled back, and I was just ready to bear down, she shot out of the room, like Cinderella when she had ‘exceeded her pass.’”

The two friends looked in next morning.  They were going in a yacht as far as the Indian village, and Bertie said if the Colonel and Cecil would be likely to have arrived, he would come in on his way back.  There was some discussion about trains and connecting boats, and a guide-book was fruitlessly hunted for.

“Oh, I recollect,” said Mrs. Rolleston, suddenly; “I put it in the table-drawer in the next room,—­right-hand drawer, Bertie,” as he went to fetch it.  He found a little more than he sought, for there, alone, with every appearance of being caught, was Bluebell.  Du Meresq would, perhaps, have avoided the contretemps, had he been prepared for it.  As it was he advanced towards her, and, clasping her in his arms, kissed the cheek from which every ray of colour had vanished, and said, tenderly,—­“What has turned my Bluebell into a Lily?”

“I have heard something.  I want to ask you a question,” came out almost mechanically.

Du Meresq had not expected so serious an answer to a banalite, and his countenance altered.

“Why are you so grave, Bluebell?  You take life too seriously, my child.  A young beauty like you need never be unhappy—­only make other people so.”

But his theories were no longer taken as gospel.

“Oh, I am quite happy,” said she, with an involuntary ironical infusion in her voice, “but I don’t often see you alone, Bertie, and there are one or two things I want to ask you.”

“We’ll soon square that”, said Du Meresq carelessly, “What do you think of Lascelles?”

“Think of him?” repeated Bluebell, with passion “What should I think of him?  I don’t care if he dies to morrow!”

“What, a good looking fellow like that?” said Du Meresq, jestingly, “and he admires you awfully.”  What a flash of those violet eyes—­regular blue lightning!  But a sudden gush of tears extinguished it, and, breaking from him, Bluebell rushed out of the room.

A look of extreme annoyance came over his face and he whistled thoughtfully.  Lascelles shouting his name, burst into the room.

“Where is that book?  ’His only books were women’s looks, and folly all they taught him.’  Oh Bertie I fear me you are a sly dog.”

“What the devil do you mean?” said Du Meresq with much irritation.

“What do you?  Keeping me here all day, while you are spooning the pretty companion.  She bolted out of this so quick,—­nearly ran into my arms, and seemed taking on shocking.  Oh, you strangely ammoral young man!”