"It is a fan," said Dora, quietly opening Jim's parcel--"an ivory one."
She passed it on to Miss Bird.
"A beautiful present, my dear," said that lady. "I admire Dr Mortimer's taste."
"And look!" cried H. R., who next inspected the fan; "it has a sprig of rosemary upon it. How very sentimental! That means remembrance, doesn't it? Dora, I do believe Dr Mortimer likes you more than he cares to admit."
"Please don't talk such nonsense, H. R.," said Dora, holding out her hand for the fan.
"Come, now," said H. R., spreading out the fan and peeping over it, "tell me! Don't you think I'm right?"
"Right about what?" asked Dora, with trembling lips. "Oh, please give me my fan!"
"Give the child her fan and don't tease her," rasped out Miss Bird, who saw through the deliberate malice of H. R.'s question.
"Why doesn't she answer, then?" said H. R., examining the sprig of rosemary with renewed interest; "anybody would think that she liked him by the way she goes on."
The blood rushed into Dora's face.