I read it: "Reginald Nettlecraft, Esq., 427, Staples Inn, London."

"What, Reggie Nettlecraft!" I cried, amused. "Why, he was a very little
boy at Charterhouse when I was a big one; he afterwards went to Oxford,
and got sent down from Christ Church for the part he took in burning a
Greek bust in Tom Quad--an antique Greek bust--after a bump supper."

"Just the sort of man I should have expected," Hilda answered, with a
suppressed smile. "I have a sort of inkling that Miss Montague likes HIM
best; he is nearer her type; but she thinks Cecil Holsworthy the better
match. Has Mr. Nettlecraft money?"

"Not a penny, I should say. An allowance from his father, perhaps, who
is a Lincolnshire parson; but otherwise, nothing."

"Then, in my opinion, the young lady is playing for Mr. Holsworthy's
money; failing which, she will decline upon Mr. Nettlecraft's heart."

We talked it all over. In the end I said abruptly: "Nurse Wade, you have
seen Miss Montague, or whatever she calls herself. I have not. I won't
condemn her unheard. I have half a mind to run down one day next week to
Scarborough and have a look at her."

"Do. That will suffice. You can judge then for yourself whether or not I
am mistaken."

I went; and what is more, I heard Miss Sissie sing at her hall--a
pretty domestic song, most childish and charming. She impressed me not
unfavourably, in spite of what Hilda said. Her peach-blossom cheek might