A day or two after this evening, Harry, coming in from a smoke, saw Bluebell, with a pleased, intent face, writing, as fast as the pen could scratch, over some foreign paper.
"Oh, Harry," cried she without looking up, "we must not forget to walk into the town this afternoon. It is mail-day, I have no stamps."
Dutton's face became suddenly overcast. He jerked the end of his cigar into the fire, and threw down his hat.
"Whom are you writing to?" he asked.
"To my mother, and everybody," said Bluebell, gleefully. "I am telling them all about it."
"The devil! My dear child, stop a little."
"Why?" looking up surprised. "Oh, do you want to put something in? It would be nicer. I'll leave half a sheet."
Harry looked the picture of vexation and perplexity. He had never realized Bluebell's relations, and here it seemed she was in regular correspondence with her mother and other friends.
"My dear girl, for goodness' sake stop! My uncle does not know it yet, and you mustn't say a word to any one."
Bluebell seemed rather bewildered. "Why don't you tell your uncle, then? And surely my mother would be equally interested!"