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 reckless, risque situations only led to the most innocent of consequences, and wherein the excitement of the reader was relieved by a series of necessary anti-climaxes without which his nerves would certainly have parted company with his self-control. She had read at least twenty such, and she even knew a gentleman—a quiet enough little man—who made sixty thousand a year writing them. Sometimes she thought she would write herself. If she had written herself she would have been the best seller in either England or America.

She was just about to inform herself as to the habits of the bee—and particularly the queen bee—when a shadow fell across the pages, and Captain Ponsonby, attired in immaculate uniform and much gold braid, made his appearance at her side. Mrs. Trevelyan thought him a hideous bore but he himself was firmly convinced that he had made a deep impression upon her.

“Good morning, my dear lady!” said the gallant officer. “How fresh you look this morning.”

“And how fresh you are this morning!” Lily murmured to herself,—transforming the