"Bluebell," cried Cecil, opening the intervening door, "can I lend you
anything?" It pleased her to supply her friend's deficiencies of toilet
when a sudden summons to a domestic field-day had been issued.

"Is it a party?" said the other. "I have only my eternal black-net
dress."

"Just Mr. Vavasour and Captain Deveril," both in her father's regiment;
they never either of them alluded to Bertie. "Here are some fixings for
it," returning with a lapful of silver acorns and oak leaves, "unless you
would prefer butter-cups. What a thing it is to have a complexion like
yours, that everything goes with,"--and Cecil looked with half envy at
the girl, whose blue eyes were bluer, and hair and cheeks brighter, than
usual, as she chattered away with a vivacity, of which, perhaps, the
nattering glances of Captain Du Meresq may have been the secret spring.

Bluebell hadn't the slightest idea of assuming the demure demeanour of
a governess in society; the Rollestons had been her great friends before,
and did not treat her as if she was in any altered position; not so,
however, Miss Prosody, who would have reduced her to the _status_ of a
nursery-maid had it been in her power.

That austere virgin was talking, or rather listening, in a sympathetic
manner to Colonel Rolleston as the girls entered the room; but her eye
had taken in every detail of Miss Leigh's costume, and disapprovingly
remarked the silver oak leaves that festooned the black-net dress, and
Maltese cross and bracelets that accompanied it, all of which she well
knew belonged to Cecil.

The three young men were talking together.