And Dora Bellairs, in a very low whisper, answered, “No.”     

       “I shall write to-night.”     

       “Oh! To-night?”     

       “Yes. Now promise me you will too.”     

       “It’s harder for me than you.”     

       “Not if he really——.”     

       “Oh, indeed, he really does, Mr. Ellerton.”     

       “Then you’ll write?”     

       “Perhaps.”     

       “No. Promise!”     

       “Well—it must be right. Yes, I will.”     

       “I feel the better for our talk, Miss Bellairs, don’t you?”     

       “I do a little.”     

       “We shall be friends now, you know; even if I bring it off I shan’t be content unless you do too. Won’t you give me your good wishes?”     

       “Indeed I will.”     

       “Shake hands on it.”     

       They shook hands and began to stroll back to the tennis-courts.     

       “They look a little better,” observed Sir Roger Deane, who had been listening to an eloquent description of the gaming-tables.     

       Dora and Charlie walked on towards the hotel.     

       “Hi!” shouted Sir Roger. “Tea’s coming out here.”     

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