Nell of Shorne Mills

Or perhaps they were talking of him--Drake. Did they miss him? At the

thought, he was reminded of the absurd song--"Will They Miss Me When I'm

Gone?" And, with something like a blush for his sentimental weakness, as

he mentally termed it, he sprang up and took his letters. They consisted

mostly of bills and invitations. He chucked the first aside and glanced

at the others; both were distasteful to him. He felt as if he should

like to cut the world forever.

And yet that wouldn't do. Everybody would say that he was completely

knocked over by the ruin of his prospects, and that he had run away. He

couldn't stand that. He had always been accustomed to facing the music,

however unpleasant it might be; and he would face it now. Besides, it

would never do to sit there moping, and wishing himself back at Shorne

Mills; because that was just what he was doing.

He turned over the gilt-edged cards and the scented notes--there seemed

to be a great many people in town, notwithstanding the deadness of the

season--and he selected one from a certain Lady Northgate. She was an

old friend of his, and she had written him a pretty little note, asking

him to a reception for that night. It was just the little note which a

thorough woman of the world would write to a man whom she liked, and who

had struck a streak of bad luck. Most of Drake's acquaintances who were

in town would be there; and it would be a good opportunity of facing the

situation and accepting more or less sincere sympathy with a good grace.

It was a fine night; and he walked to the Northgates' in Grosvenor

Square; and thought of the evening he and Nell had sailed in to Shorne

Mills with the lights peeping out through the trees, and the stars

twinkling in the deep-blue sky. It already seemed years since that

night, but he saw the girl's face as clearly as if she were walking

beside him now.

The face vanished as he went up the broad staircase and into the

brilliantly lighted room; and Shorne Mills seemed farther away, and all

that had happened there like a dream, as Lady Northgate held out her

hand and smiled at him.

She was an old friend, and many years his senior; but of course she

looked young--no one in society gets old nowadays--and she greeted him

with a cheerful badinage, which, however skillfully, suggested sympathy.

"It was a good boy to come!" she said. "I scarcely half expected you,

and Harry offered to bet me ten to one in my favorite gloves that you

wouldn't; but, somehow, I thought you would turn up. I wrote such a

pretty note, didn't I?"