I'm thinking about something." "Some _one_, my dear, you mean," put in a tall fair girl, Grace Armitage by name.

"Confess now, isn't it the new curate at St.George's?
He seemed to have no eyes for any one but you last Sunday evening.

How cruel to disturb the poor man's thoughts." "Console yourself, Grace dear--_you're_ never likely to do that." The girls tittered at Lavinia's repartee.

All knew that Grace Armitage was the vainest of the vain and believed every man who cast his eyes in her direction was in love with her.

She went white with anger.