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“I suppose one of them—Arnold, as far as that goes—can sleep at Rudge’s,” said Dick sulkily.

“Oh, I can sleep in Dad’s dressing-room, if it comes to that,” said Teresa.

“Or I can,” said Concha.

“Oh, no, you’re so much more dependent on your own dressing-table and your own things,” said Teresa; and Concha blushed. Innocent remarks of Teresa’s had a way of making her blush; but she was a fighter.

“What’s the good Colonial like?” she asked, her voice not quite natural—and thinking the while, “I will ask if I choose! It’s absolutely unbearable how self-conscious they’re making me—it’s like servants.”

“The Colonial—what Colonial? Oh, Monroe! He’s a Scot really, but he’s been out there some years; done jolly well, too. He’s a gallant fellow, too—V.C. in the war.”

“Oh, no-o-o!” drawled Concha, “how amusing! V.C.’s are so exotic—it’s like seeing a fox suddenly in a wood——” and then she blushed again, for she realised that this remark was not original, but Guy Cust’s, and that Teresa was looking at her.