“How’s Trix?”

“As sweet as ever,” answered Tom, gruffly.

“Did she scold you, as usual?”

“She just did.”

“What was the matter?”

“Well, I’ll leave it to you if this isn’t unreasonable: she won’t dance with me herself, yet don’t like me to go it with anybody else. I said, I thought if a fellow took a girl to a party, she ought to dance with him once, at least, especially if they were engaged. She said that was the very reason why she shouldn’t do it; so, at the last hop, I let her alone, and had a gay time with Belle, and to-day Trix gave it to me hot and heavy, coming home from church.”

“If you go and engage yourself to a girl like that, I don’t know what you can expect. Did she wear her Paris hat to-day?” added Fan, with sudden interest in her voice.

“She wore some sort of a blue thing, with a confounded bird of Paradise in it, that kept whisking into my face every time she turned her head.”

“Men never know a pretty thing when they see it. That hat is perfectly lovely.”

“They know a lady when they see her, and Trix don’t look like one; I can’t say where the trouble is, but there’s too much fuss and feathers for my taste. You are twice as stylish, yet you never look loud or fast.”

Touched by this unusual compliment, Fanny drew her chair nearer as she replied with complacency,—

“Yes, I flatter myself I do know how to dress well. Trix never did; she’s fond of gay colours, and generally looks like a walking rainbow.”

“Can’t you give her a hint? Tell her not to wear blue gloves anyway, she knows I hate ’em.”

“I’ve done my best for your sake, Tom, but she is a perverse creature, and don’t mind a word I say, even about things much more objectionable than blue gloves.”

“Maudie, run and bring me my other cigar case, it’s lying round somewhere.”

Maud went; and as soon as the door was shut Tom rose on his elbow, saying, in a cautiously lowered voice:

“Fan, does Trix paint?”

“Yes, and draws too,” answered Fanny, with a sly laugh.

“Come, you know what I mean; I’ve a right to ask and you ought to tell,” said Tom, soberly, for he was beginning to find that being engaged was not unmitigated bliss.

“What makes you think she does?”

“Well, between ourselves,” said Tom, looking a little sheepish, but anxious to set his mind at rest, “she never will let me kiss her on her cheek, nothing but an unsatisfactory peck at her lips. Then the other day, as I took a bit of heliotrope out of a vase to put in my button-hole, I whisked a drop of water into her face; I was going to wipe it off, but she pushed my hand away, and ran to the glass where she carefully