One hot summer day, a few months after the marriage, Juliet, returning to the consulate after a morning spent in very active exercise upon a tennis court, was met on the doorstep by Dora, the youngest of the Clarency Butchers, who was awaiting her approach in a high state of excitement.

"Hurry up, Juliet," she cried, as soon as she could make herself heard. "You'll never guess what there is for you. Something you don't often get!"

"What is it?" said Juliet, coming up the steps.

"Guess!"

"A present?"

"No; at least I suppose not; but there may be one inside."

"Inside? Oh, then it's a parcel?" asked Juliet good-humouredly.

She felt a mild curiosity, tempered by the knowledge that many things provided a thrill for the ten-year-old Dora, which she, from the advanced age of twenty-three, could not look upon as particularly exciting.

"No, not a parcel," cried Dora, dancing round her. "It's a letter. There now!"

"Then why do you say it's something I don't often get?" asked Juliet suspiciously; "I often get letters. It's an invitation to the Gertignés' dance, I expect."

"No, no, it isn't. It's a letter from England. You don't often get one from there, now, do you? You never did before since we've been here. I always examine your letters, you know," said Dora, "to see if they look as if they came from young men. So does Margaret. We think it's time you got engaged."