the maid over the dusting of the ornaments and the arrangement of the flowers, and ended with the inevitable threat that she would in future do them both herself. This she began at once to carry into effect by walking about the room with a duster and making herself very hot and cross. When she had broken a valuable Venetian glass, and made the startling discovery that all the dust she dissipated settled somewhere else directly afterwards, she hid the duster under a sofa cushion, collected all the flowers out of all the vases and piled them in a heap in the fender. Then she sat down on the hearth-rug and looked at them helplessly, and felt very foolish, when Margaret came in without being announced and laughed at her.
"My dear Cynthia, what is the matter, and whatever are you doing on the floor?" cried the girl.
"I'm doing the flowers," cried Cynthia briskly; "how jolly you look. Did you trim that hat yourself?"
"Yes, it s my old Louise, don't you remember? But what s the matter?"
"Matter?" cried Mrs. Angelo in a tone of amazement, "what should be the matter? I am particularly happy this morning. Something very nice that I wanted very much indeed has happened to me, and I never felt more pleased about anything in my life."
"You've got a very funny way of looking pleased," said Margaret candidly, "and it's more than I feel myself. I've come round to tell you something, Cynthia, something very important and not at all pleasant to either of us. But hadn't you better get off the floor first?"
"Well, what is it, child?" asked Mrs. Angelo when she had limped with two cramped legs to the nearest chair.
"I only wish you to understand quite clearly that I am not in
love
