for breakfast she don't know, and never will until I go and help her."

Polly departed, leaving her mistress cosy in bed and strangely
reluctant to rise and part company with her waking thoughts.

Yes; Dorothea had danced twice again with M. Raoul since her discovery
of his boldness. He had seen her draw the orange curtain over his
offence, had sought her again and apologised for, it. He had done it
(he had pleaded) on a sudden impulse--to be a reminder of one kind
glance which had brightened his exile. 'No one but she was in the
least likely to recognise the trinket; in any case he would paint it
out at the first opportunity. And Dorothea had forgiven him. She
herself had a great capacity for gratitude, and understood the feeling
far too thoroughly to believe for an instant that M. Raoul could be
mightily grateful for anything she had said or done. No; whatever the
feeling which impels a young gentleman to secrete some little private
reminder of its object, it is not gratitude; and Dorothea rejoiced
inwardly that it was not. But what then was it? Some attraction of
sympathy, no doubt. To find herself attractive in any way was a new
experience and delightful. She had forgiven him on the spot. And
afterwards they had danced twice together, and he had praised her
dancing. Also, he had said something about a pretty foot--but
Frenchmen must always be complimenting.

A noise in the street interrupted her thoughts, and reminded her that
she must not be dawdling longer in bed. She shut her teeth, made a
leap for it, and, running to the window, peered over the blind. Some
score of the prisoners in a gang were clearing the pavement with
shovels and brushes, laughing and chattering all the while, and
breaking off to pelt each other with snowballs. She had discussed