"So gently patronizing, and so 'I-don't-suppose-you-can-help-it,
poor-thing,' in your general style," said Jessie, kissing her. "There!
I only wish I was like you. What do you say if we write to father that
we'll go back to Devil's Ford? Mr. Munroe thinks we will be of service
there just now. If the men are dissatisfied, and think we're spending
money--"

"I'm afraid Mr. Munroe is hardly a disinterested adviser. At least, I
don't think it would look quite decent for you to fly back without your
father, at his suggestion," said Christie coldly. "He is not the only
partner. We are spending no money. Besides, we have engaged to go to Mr.
Prince's again next week."

"As you like, dear," said Jessie, turning away to hide a faint smile.

Nevertheless, when they returned from their visit to Mr. Prince's, and
one or two uneventful rides, Christie looked grave. It was only a few
days later that Jessie burst upon her one morning.

"You were saying that nobody ever tells you anything. Well, here's your
chance. Whiskey Dick is below."

"Whiskey Dick?" repeated Christie. "What does he want?"

"YOU, love. Who else? You know he always scorns me as not being
high-toned and elegant enough for his social confidences. He asked for
you only."

With an uneasy sense of some impending revelation, Christie descended to
the drawing-room. As she opened the door, a strong flavor of that toilet