"It is past sunrise, Sir Everard," his preserver began, with a
reproachful glance, "and you have broken your promise. You said you
would awake me."

"I beg your pardon," retorted Sir Everard, quietly; "I have broken no
promise. I came to your room ten minutes ago to arouse you, as I said
I would. I knocked thrice, and received no reply. Then I entered.
You must excuse me for doing so. How was I to know I was entertaining
angels unaware?"

With a low cry of consternation his hearer's hands flew up and covered
his face, to hide the blushes that were not there.

"Your red handkerchief and hat do you good service in your masquerade,
mademoiselle. I confess I should never suspect a lady in that suit of
velveteen."

With a sudden theatrical abandon the "lady in velveteen" flung herself
on her knees at his feet.

"Forgive me!" she cried, holding up her clasped hands. "Have pity on
me! Don't reveal my secret, for Heaven's sake."

"Forgive you!" repeated Sir Everard, hastily. "What have I to forgive?
Pray get up; there is no reason you should kneel and supplicate pity
from me."

He raised her imperatively. Her head dropped in womanly confusion,
and, hiding her face, she sobbed.