"Oh! I wonder where they finished. Royal Academy--finishing Academy.
Regimentals and a gold frame--leaning heroically on a mild-looking cannon
with battles in the background."

"Yes, dear," replied Mrs. Agar, who only half understood Dora Glynde at
all times; "it is such a good thing for Jem. Such a splendid opportunity,
you know!"

"Yes," echoed the girl, with a twist of her humorous lips. "Splendid!"

She had turned again, and was looking out of the window across a soft old
lawn where two Wellingtonians towered side by side like sentries. Without
glancing in the direction of her companion she knew the expression of
Mrs. Agar's face, the direction of her gaze; the very thought in her
shallow mind. She knew that Mrs. Agar was sitting with her arms on the
little davenport, gazing rapturously at the photograph of an insipid
young man with a silk-faced smoking jacket; with clean linen, clean
countenance, clean hands, immaculate hair, and a general air of being too
weak to be mean.

"Sister Cecilia," went on the elder lady, "seems to know all about it."

It is useless to attempt concealment of the fact that at this juncture
Dora Glynde made a face--an honest schoolgirl behind-your-back
Face--indicative of supreme scorn for some person or persons unspecified.

Hers was a countenance which lent itself admirably to the purpose, with
lips full of humour, and capable, as such lips are, of expressing a great
and wonderful tenderness. The face, _du reste_, was that of a healthy,