did. Holding the carnations to her lips and nostrils, she examined in

meditative detail the countenance before her--delicately modeled, dark, nervously high-spirited even in repose. Associations came back as she gazed--the tender eagerness of the lad, the wistful charm with which his fancy had invested England, the frank sweetness of the temperament he had disclosed to her. He had been like a flower himself on that mellow autumn day--as fresh and as goodly to the eye as these roses on the table. But a winter had intervened since then--and what gross disillusionments, what roughening and hardening and corroding experiences had he not encountered! You could not tell anything by a face in sleep; again she assured herself of that.

Why, when one came to think of it, it was enough that Cora had brought him--or sent him, it mattered not which. Whence had she dispatched him?--from some theatrical dance or late supper. It was true that he was not in evening dress--and the thought gave her pause for a moment. But he had been at some place where those wretched cousins of his were present--for Cora had spoken of keeping both Eddy and Gus “off his back”--whatever that might mean. And it was Cora herself who had told him to go to Covent Garden and buy these flowers!

Frances, revolving these unpleasant reflections, discovered all at once that the young man, without betraying by any other motion his awakening, had opened his eyes and was looking placidly across the flowers into her face.

She caught a quick breath, and frowned slightly at him.