"Stuff," cried Bluebell, with a sudden blush, which was not occasioned by the remark, but by the expression of Bertie Du Meresq's eyes that she had caught for about the third time since dinner began. It was very provoking; they had a sort of magnetic power, that forced her to look that way, and she fancied she detected a half-pleased smile in recognition of the involuntary suffusion.
"We are going; to 'fix up a prance' after the garrison sleigh drive on the 10th," continued young Vavasour; "will you come my sleigh, Miss Leigh?"
Bluebell's face brightened with anticipation; then she looked down, and demurred,—"I don't know that I shall be able to go."
"That's only a put off, I am sure; you came out last garrison sleigh-drive."
"Yes, because Colonel Rolleston took me in his, but I mustn't expect to go every time; and you see there's Freddy; but I should like it awfully, Mr. Vavasour."
"Well, I know they will make you come," said he confidently. "Promise me you won't drive with any other fellow."
"No fear of that; I don't suppose any one else will ask me."
"Wouldn't they," thought Vavasour. "I know two or three of our fellows are death on driving her."
"Cecil," said Bertie, suddenly, "I think you have grown much quieter."
"I am sure I might make the same remark, and for the purposes of conversation it requires two to talk."