“He thought he’d meet Maggie Oliphant,” said Annie Day; “it was a shame to lure him on with a falsehood.  I don’t wonder at people not respecting the Elliot-Smiths.”

“My dear,” responded Rosalind, “Meta did not tell a lie.  I never could have guessed that you were straight-laced, Annie.”

“Nor am I,” responded Annie with a sigh, which she quickly suppressed.

“The whole thing fitted in admirably with our wishes,” continued Rose, “and now we need not do anything further in the matter.  Rumor, in the shape of Hetty Jones’ tongue and Polly Singleton’s hints, will do the rest for us.”

“Do you really think that Maggie Oliphant cares for Mr. Hammond?” asked Lucy Marsh.

“Cares for him!” said Rosalind.  “Does a duck swim?  Does a baby like sweet things?  Maggie is so much in love with Mr. Hammond that she’s almost ill about it—­ there!”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the other two girls.

“She is, I know she is.  She treats him shamefully, because of some whim of hers.  I only wish she may never get him.”

“He’d do nicely for you, wouldn’t he, Rose?” said Annie Day.

A delicate pink came into Rosalind’s cheeks.  She rose to leave the room.

“Mr. Hammond is not in my style,” she said.  “Much too severe and too learned.  Good night, girls.  I must look over the notes of that wretched French lecture before I go to bed.”

Rosalind sought her own room, which was in another corridor.  It was late now—­ past eleven o’clock.  The electric light had been put out.  She was well supplied with candles, however, and lighting two on the mantel-piece and two on her bureau, she proceeded to stir up her fire and to make her room warm and cozy.

Rosalind still wore the pretty light silk which had given her such an elegant appearance at the Elliot-Smiths’ that afternoon.  Securing the bolt of her door, she pushed aside a heavy curtain, which concealed the part of her room devoted to her wardrobe, washing apparatus, etc.  Rosalind’s wardrobe had a glass door, and she could see her petite figure in it from head to foot.  It was a very small figure, but exquisitely proportioned.  Its owner admired it much.  She turned herself round, took up a hand-glass and surveyed herself in profile and many other positions.  Then, taking off her pretty dress, she arrayed herself in a long white muslin dressing-robe, and letting down her golden hair, combed out the glittering masses.  They fell in showers below her waist.  Her face looked more babyish and innocent than ever as it smiled to its own fair image in the glass.

“How he did scowl at me!” said Rosalind, suddenly speaking aloud.  “But I had to say it.  I was determined to find out for myself how much or how little he cares for Maggie Oliphant, and, alas! there’s nothing of the ‘little’ in his affection.  Well, well!  I did not do badly to-day.  I enjoyed myself and I took a nice rise out of that disagreeable Miss Peel.  Now must I look through those horrid French notes?  Need I?” She pirouetted on one toe in front of the glass.  The motion exhilarated her, and, raising her white wrapper so as to get a peep at her small, pretty feet, she waltzed slowly and gracefully in front of the mirror.