I

“You’ll need,” said Jane’s mother reflectively, “at least four new evening dresses. The blue can be made over in the house.” She was standing in the doorway of Jane’s closet, regarding Jane’s depleted wardrobe with an appraising eye.

Jane, darning a stocking by the window overlooking the willow tree, was conscious of a certain sense of unwonted importance. Four new evening dresses. Nothing like that, of course, had ever occurred to her before.

“The pink,” continued her mother, turning to look at her earnestly, “will be home in time for Flora’s dance. You will need three others.” She gave a little sigh as she spoke. “Things aren’t as simple as they were when Isabel came out.”

“Here’s Isabel now,” said Jane.

Her mother hurried to the window. There was Isabel, indeed, pushing the baby carriage up the side path.

“She’s getting nice and thin again,” said Jane’s mother, “now she’s stopped nursing the baby.”

Isabel saw them and waved cheerfully over the hood of the carriage. Jane thought she had never looked so pretty.

“I like her fat,” she said.

Isabel stooped to lift up the soft armful of afghans that was her son. His head wobbled alarmingly in his big blue bonnet and came safely to rest on Isabel’s shoulder. She picked up a bottle and a bundle of blankets with her free hand and turned toward the side door.

“It’s a great deal for Isabel to do,” said Jane’s mother, “to take care of that great child all by herself.”

“I think she likes it,” said Jane. “I’d like it if he were mine.” Her nephew always appealed to her as an animated doll. She loved to go over to Isabel’s little apartment in the Kinzie flats and watch her bathe and dress him.

Isabel’s voice floated up the stairs.

“Aren’t you ready?” she asked.

“You’re early,” said Jane’s mother.

“I know. I brought the baby over so he could have his nap.” Isabel appeared in the doorway. “Jane ought to be there before it begins.”

They were all going over to Muriel’s reception. Jane and Flora were going to pour tea.

“She will be,” said Jane’s mother. “Let me have him.”

Jane’s mother sat down in the chair by the window with her grandson in her arms. She began unwrapping the afghans.

“Isabel,” she said, “you don’t keep this child warm enough.”

Isabel exchanged a covert glance with Jane. Jane knew just how she felt. He was Isabel’s baby.

“Oh⁠—he’s all right,” Isabel said. “Put him on the bed and let him kick.”

“Shut the window, Jane,” said Jane’s mother, “so there won’t be a draught.”

Jane obeyed in silence.

“You ought to be getting dressed, Mother,” said Isabel.

“Give me that bottle,” said Mrs. Ward. “I’ll put it on ice.” She left the room, bottle in hand.

“Tell Minnie she has to watch him while we’re out,” called Isabel. Then privately to Jane, “Honestly⁠—Mother gets on my nerves.”

“She’s crazy about the baby,” said Jane.

“She gets on Robin’s nerves, too, sometimes,” said Isabel, and opened the window.

It was curious, thought Jane, to see Robin and the baby insidiously wedging their way in between her mother and Isabel. They had always been so close before.

“Do you like my dress?” asked Isabel.

It was very pretty. Jane recognized it at once. The blue and yellow stripe made over from the trousseau.

“It’s just as good as new,” said Jane.

“No, it’s not,” said Isabel. Her pretty face was clouded. “And it’s much too tight. But it has to do.” Then irrelevantly, “Robin got a raise last week.”

“That’s good,” said Jane. “Unbutton my waist, will you?”

Isabel’s fingers busied themselves with hooks and eyes.

“What do you know about Muriel?” she asked.

“Muriel?” said Jane, surprised. She wasn’t conscious of anything.

“Muriel and Bert,” said Isabel. “Bert Lancaster.”

“Bert Lancaster?” echoed Jane. “What about them?”

“Rosalie says he’s crazy about her.”

“Isabel!” cried Jane. “That old man!”

“He’s not forty,” said Isabel. “I don’t believe he’s more than thirty-eight.”

Jane slipped out of her skirt and turned toward her closet door.

“He sends her flowers,” said Isabel, “three times a week.”

“Everyone,” said Jane, “sends Muriel flowers.”

“He’s over there,” said Isabel, “all the time.”

“Great for Muriel,” said Jane laconically. Then, emerging from the closet, “Here’s my new dress.”

“It’s lovely,” said Isabel. Jane thought it was too. Pink taffeta with ecru lace revers over the enormous sleeves. “You’ll look sweet.”

Jane walked over to the walnut bureau and began to take down her hair.

“Mrs. Lester,” said Isabel, “doesn’t like it a bit.”

“Why, she hasn’t seen it!” cried Jane indignantly. No one could help liking that pink taffeta dress. It was ordered for Muriel’s début.

“Not the dress, goose!” laughed Isabel. “Bert.”

“Oh!” said Jane, immensely relieved.

“Rosalie says she can’t do a thing with Muriel,” said Isabel. “Of course she never could.”

“Do you think I ought to curl my hair?” asked Jane anxiously. “I suppose I could learn⁠—”

Isabel regarded her very seriously, her head on one side.

“N-no,” she said slowly. “I like it straight.”

“You’ve got a certain style, Jane, all your own.”

That was the first time that Jane had ever heard that. She flushed with pleasure.

“I shouldn’t think she would like it,” resumed Isabel. “Robin says Bert’s been awfully fast.”

“Ready, Jane?” It was her mother’s voice. Mrs. Ward stood in the doorway. She looked very pretty in her violet gown with her little black lace shoulder cape and violet bonnet. “Who opened the window?” Mrs. Ward promptly shut it and walked over to the bed to feel the baby’s feet solicitously, with a reproving glance at Isabel.

“Hook me up,” said Jane, backing down on her sister just in time to prevent an outburst of protest.

“What were you saying,” asked Mrs. Ward, “that Robin said about Bert?” The baby was forgotten. Isabel faced her mother over Jane’s shoulder with a kindling eye. Jane could see her in the mirror.

“Robin says,” she began eagerly, “that Bert has always gone an awful pace. And Rosalie says that Freddy thinks it’s dreadful of her mother to let Muriel have anything to do with him.”

“It would certainly be very awkward,” mused Jane’s mother, “if it should come to anything. Considering Muriel’s friendship with Flora.”

“I don’t think Flora has ever noticed a thing,” said Isabel. “Do you, Jane?”

“Did she ever mention it?” asked Jane’s mother.

“No,” said Jane, and took her new hat out of the hatbox.

“Lily Furness is a fool,” said Mrs. Ward, “but in a way she’s clever. I dare say she’d be very careful.”

“She’s not very careful now,” said Isabel. “She looks like the wrath of heaven.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Ward with dignity, “why she hasn’t more pride.”

“You never see him there any more,” said Isabel. “You don’t ever see him, do you, Jane?”

Jane was putting on her hat before the mirror. It was a very pretty hat with a big pink taffeta bow standing high in the back. Jane adjusted her white face veil, making little mouths at herself in the glass as she drew it down tightly over her chin.

“Why, no,” she said slowly, “I⁠—I haven’t⁠—lately.”

“It would be sad,” said Jane’s mother, shaking her head, “if it weren’t so silly.”

“It’s certainly silly,” said Isabel, laughing. “Giving yourself away like that over a man who’s running around after your daughter’s best friend⁠—”

Jane turned suddenly to face them. Her eyes were snapping with anger.

“I don’t think it’s silly at all,” she said abruptly. If it’s true, I think it’s tragic. I like Flora’s mother. She’s always been lovely to me. And she’s always been perfectly beautiful. She is still. If⁠—if Bert Lancaster ever⁠—ever loved her and⁠—and got over it, I think he’s the one that’s silly. Chasing after Muriel Lester who’s young enough to be his own daughter! I think it’s dreadful for people to get over loving⁠—”

“Has it ever occurred to you,” said Jane’s mother icily, “that Flora’s mother is a married woman?”

Jane felt suddenly deflated. And a little unequal to coping with the complications the situation presented. But she stood by her guns.

“I don’t care if she is,” she said stoutly. “She’s no more married now than she was when it began. Anyway, I think it’s her own business,” She caught up her wrap from the bed and stooped to kiss the baby. “Isabel, he is cute. I’m ready, now.”

“You look very well,” said her mother.

In the hall they met Minnie, coming up all smiles to play nursemaid. Isabel lingered to speak to her for a moment. Mrs. Ward was on the stairs.

“You can open the east window,” Jane heard Isabel murmur. Then her mother’s voice rang out from the lower hall.

“Come on, girls! The cab’s at the door.”

II

The November air felt very cool and bracing as they stood on the front steps. It was very luxurious, Jane thought, to be driving over to Muriel’s in a cab when it was only four blocks away. Everything at home seemed luxurious, after Bryn Mawr. It really wasn’t nearly as bad as she had thought it was going to be. It was fun to be with her father again. He had given her a new desk and a bookcase to hold all her Bryn Mawr books. Her mother had had her room repapered. It was very exciting to buy all the new clothes and to feel herself, for once, the central figure on the little family stage. Even Isabel seemed to think that nothing was too good for her. Hats and frocks and shoes and stockings were arriving every day, regardless of expense. Jane was a little appalled at the outlay, but everyone else seemed to take it completely for granted. Jane was a débutante. She had to have things. Her mother had even ordered her some new calling cards, though the old ones were not half used up. “Miss Ward,” they said, with the “Jane” left off. Jane couldn’t quite think of herself as “Miss Ward.” She was, of course, now Isabel was married.

The cab turned the corner that always made her remember André’s last smile. She could still see his tall, slender figure, walking, furiously fast, up Pine Street. But she had grown accustomed, now, to missing André. The first fall days, that always made her feel that school should be beginning, had brought him to mind at every turn. She had planned to go to see his mother just as soon as she was sure that she was back from her summer in France. Mrs. Duroy would tell her all about him.

She had mentioned that projected visit a little diffidently to her father. She had not seen Mrs. Duroy since the night of the bicycle picnic. Two years ago and more. Her father had looked at her very kindly.

“They’ve gone, Jane,” he said gently.

“Gone?” she had echoed faintly.

“He was called back to Europe. Stationed in Prague, now, I think. They left last winter, soon after Christmas.”

So that was that.

“Papa,” Jane had said, rather hesitantly, “do⁠—do you know anything about André?”

“Not a thing, kid. Haven’t heard of him since he left.”

“I⁠—I wish I could have seen his mother,” Jane had said miserably, “before she went away.” Her father patted her hand. There was nothing to say. Prague. Jane wasn’t even quite sure what country it was in. She kept thinking of André in Prague. Or Paris.

She kept thinking, too, of Agnes and Marion, and of what they were doing, each hour of the day, on the green October campus. It was very easy to imagine that, for the Bryn Mawr days were marked off meticulously hour by hour, with a fixed, unchanging programme. A quarter to nine⁠—chapel was assembling. Miss Thomas was entering the rostrum. The choir was tuning up. The Quaker prayer was begun. Ten minutes past nine⁠—Agnes was settling down for her Greek lecture. Ten⁠—Marion was entering Major Latin. Twelve⁠—the English professor was ascending the stairs. One⁠—Pembroke dining-room was a babel of tongues. Four⁠—Agnes was getting out the teakettle. Five⁠—they were running down the Gulf Road for a brisk walk before supper. Jane could almost hear Taylor clock striking off the hours.

It was nearly four now. Nearly five in Bryn Mawr. Agnes and Marion were washing up the tea-things that very minute. They were laughing about something, of course. Something funny that Agnes would have said. Jane forgot them, however, at the sight of Muriel’s awning. It was her first big party. Next week she would have an awning of her own.

The doorman, resplendent in maroon broadcloth and brass buttons, flung open the cab door with a flourish. Jane followed her mother and Isabel up the red velvet carpet. She remembered, just in time, to pick up her pink taffeta train.

The Lesters’ big house was in very festive array. There were palms from the florist’s and flowers everywhere. Great gold and russet bunches of chrysanthemums and roses of every kind and colour. The front hall smelled faintly like a greenhouse. A line of caterer’s men bowed them up the stairs. They were very early, which was quite as it should be. Jane’s place was awaiting her behind the great silver teakettle in the dining-room.

Jane flung off her wrap in the lacy splendour of the Lesters’ guestroom. A waiting-maid seized it as it fell. She folded it meticulously and laid it on the bed. Jane looked in the long glass. So, she had a style of her own, she thought. Isabel had said so, and Isabel knew. Jane couldn’t see it, however. But her gown was very pretty and her waist was very small and her cheeks were pink with excitement behind her sheer white face veil. She ran down the stairs ahead of her mother.

The four Lesters were standing ceremoniously at the parlour door. The room seemed very bare and strangely neat, with all the furniture pushed back against the walls, and all the ornaments removed to make way for the magnificent flowers. Mrs. Lester looked perfectly enormous in purple satin. Muriel, at her side, incredibly angelic, in white lace. Her hair was a black cloud. Her eyes were very bright and blue, dancing with pleasure. She carried a great bunch of white sweet peas. She flung her arms around Jane excitedly. Edith, imported from Cleveland, was next in line. Jane hadn’t seen her for nearly three years. She looked a lot older, Jane thought, and rather tired. Rosalie was chattering to the last guest, a funny old lady in a satin cape. Freddy Waters and the Cleveland brother-in-law were talking together near the front window. With their sleek blond heads and their black frock coats and their dove-coloured neckties they looked as much alike as the two Dromios.

Jane passed down the line and stood a moment, uncertainly, in the empty room. She didn’t know the old lady and she never knew what to say to Freddy Waters. She hadn’t seen the Cleveland brother-in-law since his wedding day, four years before. She wandered a bit uneasily toward the dining-room door. There was Flora behind the chocolate pot. Flora, very fair and frail, looking like a little Dresden shepherdess in pale blue silk. Jane took her place at the other end of the table. An obsequious caterer’s man hovered behind her chair. Or perhaps he was the new butler. Jane couldn’t remember. Some people that she didn’t know were standing around the table, plates in hand. She was too far away from Flora to talk. She could hardly see her over the great orchid centrepiece.

Somebody asked for some tea. Jane poured it out in silence. More people were coming into the room. Jane didn’t know any of them. Lots of them wanted tea. Jane was kept quite busy. She could hear Flora chattering away at her end of the table. Flora knew ever so many people. Some men came in. Quite old ones. They gravitated around Flora. She seemed to have lots to talk about. One grey-bearded gentleman was a trifle deaf. He was asking Flora a question.

“Jane Ward,” she heard Flora say. “Jane Ward. Mrs. John Ward’s daughter.”

“John Ward’s daughter?” Jane heard him reply. “Didn’t know there was another.” He was staring at her over the orchids. “Pretty little filly.”

Jane felt unaccountably exhilarated. She looked up at an old lady who was asking for tea, with a ravishing smile.

“Doesn’t Muriel look lovely?” she said politely. The old lady must at least know Muriel.

“Muriel who?” said the old lady. But Jane was not discouraged. She went on smiling and trying to talk. Pretty little filly, he had said.

Freddy Waters came in with three young men. He brought them up to Jane.

“They want tea,” he said, and introduced them.

Jane realized at once that she had been so excited that she hadn’t heard their names. But she smiled very steadfastly.

Pretty little filly. Very soon the young men were laughing. One of them pretended that the massive hot-water kettle was too heavy for her to lift. He filled the empty teapot himself. Jane thought he was awfully attractive. She felt her cheeks growing hot in the crowded room. She hoped they were growing pinker. More young men came in. Her unknown swains introduced them. Jane didn’t hear their names, either. One of them brought her some pink punch.

“There’s a stick in it,” he said, smiling.

Jane felt quite daring, drinking it. She glanced across at Flora. Flora was drinking it too. She was surrounded by young men. The old ones had all gone. Two elderly ladies were waiting for their chocolate, a bit impatiently. They got it, finally, from the caterer’s man.

The room was very hot, and very, very noisy. Jane had to scream to be heard. It was easier to talk when you screamed, she discovered, much easier than in a silent room. When you screamed, things seemed funny.

Presently there was a little disturbance at the dining-room door. Lots of young men came in, and then Muriel. Muriel looked flushed and terribly excited. Her cheeks were rose pink. She was waving her sweet peas and laughing at everyone. Close behind her was Mr. Bert Lancaster. He looked old, Jane thought, among all those gay young people, but awfully handsome. His moustache was just right. It was waxed, the least little bit, at the ends. There was a white sweet pea in his buttonhole.

He cleared the way for Muriel to the tea-table. The crowd was thinning out. Muriel patted Jane’s shoulder.

“Tired, darling?” she asked, Mr. Lancaster offered her a cup of tea. She shook her head. “I want something cold.”

One of the young men sprang to get some punch. When he came back with it, Mr. Lancaster took the glass cup out of his hand and gave it to Muriel himself. The young man glared resentfully. Muriel smiled up into the eyes of Mr. Lancaster and drank the punch with little gasps of delight.

“I was so thirsty,” she said. “I’m awfully hot.”

Mr. Lancaster took her arm very gently, just above the elbow. He steered her through what was left of the crowd to the bay window at the end of the room. He opened the sash a little. Muriel stood leaning against the red velvet window curtains, fanning herself with her sweet peas. Mr. Lancaster was bending over her, his eyes upon her face.

“May I have a cup of tea, Jane?” said somebody softly. Jane started and looked up. It was Flora’s mother. She had on a tiny black bonnet with one pink rose and a perky little black velvet bow that stood up behind. Her face was framed in the black lace ruff of her little cape. It looked very pale against that background and when she raised her veil, Jane thought her lips were white. In a moment, though, she was laughing with one of the young men. Her laugh was very low and silvery and her eyes were very bright. Her black dotted veil was tucked coquettishly up over her little nose. The young man seemed enslaved at once. Flora’s mother looked up into his eyes and laughed again. The young man was immensely flattered. Jane was staring up at them, just as she had stared, a moment before, at Mr. Bert Lancaster and Muriel.

“Do you know this dear child?” said Flora’s mother. She introduced the young man. Jane smiled very dutifully, but she couldn’t compete with Mrs. Furness. The young man returned to his devotion. Flora’s mother put her teacup down. The tea was untasted. Two more young men were talking to her now. She turned to leave the room and all three went with her.

Jane’s eyes returned to Muriel. She was still standing with Mr. Lancaster by the window. He was talking to her, very earnestly, but Muriel’s eyes were wandering brightly over the crowd. She was not bothering much to listen to him. Jane returned to her tea-pouring.

Suddenly she saw Rosalie enter the room. She walked straight over to Muriel and she looked very much provoked. She said something sharply and Muriel turned away with her toward the door. Mr. Lancaster followed.

“You’ve got to stay in line with Mamma,” said Rosalie angrily, as they passed Jane’s elbow. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

They walked toward the door together. Mr. Lancaster was strolling behind them pulling his moustache and smiling. On the threshold they almost ran into Flora’s mother. She spoke at once to Mr. Lancaster and smiled, very prettily, up into his face. He answered rather briefly, and, after a moment. Flora’s mother turned away with her three young men. Mr. Lancaster followed Muriel into the parlour.

Jane heard an excited whisper in her ear.

“Did you see that?” It was Isabel. Jane thoroughly despised her. She felt terribly sorry for Flora’s mother and she hated Mr. Bert Lancaster. But, most of all, she despised herself for having seen it. She had seen it all, she had stared at it, just like Isabel. It quite spoiled the end of the reception.

III

Jane stood in Flora’s bedroom, smoothing her hair before the long mirror, while Flora’s maid sewed up the torn net flounces of her pink dancing-frock. Lots of other girls were there, too, repairing the ravages of the evening. Muriel, at her elbow, was busy changing her flowers. She had carried a big bunch of gardenias all the first part of the party and, now that they were bruised and brown, she was replacing them with a second corsage of white violets. Jane knew that Bert Lancaster sent white violets, sometimes. Muriel looked very pretty. She had on a dress of bright blue satin that exactly matched her eyes and she had a snood of blue velvet ribbon in her hair.

It had been a beautiful evening. Flora’s dance had been a great success. They had just come up from supper and the cotillion was going to begin immediately. You could hear the orchestra faintly, from the ballroom upstairs. It was playing a waltz. Muriel began to sing the air, very softly:

“Casey would waltz with a strawberry blonde,
And the band played on.
He’d glide ’cross the floor with the girl he adored,
And the band played on⁠—”

Jane’s feet were twitching to the rhythm. She could hardly stand still long enough for the maid to take the last hurried stitches.

“Ready, Muriel?” she said.

Muriel pitched the gardenias into the wastebasket and skewered the violets more securely to her whalebones.

Jane paused to pat Flora’s mother’s pug. He was a very old dog, now, and he was lying in his little blue-and-white basket on the sofa where the maid could keep him company. His name was Folly. It didn’t seem very appropriate as he wheezed and snuffled over her caress. He wore a tan blanket for his rheumatism and he looked just like a little pop-eyed old man in a light overcoat.

“There!” said Muriel. “Come on.”

They ran lightly up the stairs together to the third floor. The arched entrance to the ballroom directly faced the staircase. The ballroom stretched across the front of the house. Its six tall windows pierced the mansard roof. The orchestra was bowered in palms on a little platform at the end of the room. The walls were hung with smilax. The floor was quite empty, for the moment. It was ringed with gold caterer’s chairs and in one corner there was a long table festooned with cotillion favours. Hoops and staffs and wreaths and hats of coloured paper. There was a great crowd of young men around the door and five or six girls. Among them Flora, queen of the ball, shimmering in white taffeta, a great sheaf of pink roses in her arms. Mrs. Furness was standing beside her. She didn’t look like a mother at all, Jane thought, in that violet velvet gown, with its long, slinky train. Her golden hair was just as bright as Flora’s, and her willowy waist as slender. She was smiling and shaking her head at one of the young men over a spangled violet fan. Mr. Furness, looking very plump in his evening dress and just a little choked in his high stiff collar, was opening the windows to cool off the room before the dancing began again. He had quite a little struggle with one of them. His bald head was shining in the light of the crystal chandelier. Several young men ran over to help him. The cold night breeze swept over the floor.

Many more girls had come in, now, and the band was slipping into a polka. Flora’s mother caught up her train over her long gloved arm and glided out on the floor in the arms of one of the young men. Her great puffy violet velvet sleeves accentuated the slimness of her figure. She was a beautiful dancer. In a moment two other couples had joined them. Muriel pranced past with an impetuous partner. Jane found an arm around her waist. She picked up her train and began polkaing with ardour. The floor was crowded all too soon.

The music stopped at the note of an imperious whistle. Mr. Bert Lancaster was standing in the doorway. Mr. Bert Lancaster always led cotillions.

“Take seats!” he shouted.

There was a mad rush for partners and a madder rush for the little gold chairs. Jane had promised this cotillion weeks ago. Miraculously, her partner found her in the confusion of the room. They ran for the coveted places near the favour table. Mr. Bert Lancaster advanced slowly to the centre of the floor. It was clearing rapidly. Mr. Lancaster stood waiting, whistle in hand, under the crystal chandelier. He had a lieutenant at his elbow. Jane had met him at supper. He was Stephen Carver, Flora’s cousin from Boston. He knew all about cotillions, Flora had said. He was a very slim young man with frank blue eyes and curly blond hair and a budding moustache that didn’t show for much, just yet. He had just come to Chicago to live, and he didn’t know many people. Jane thought he was very good-looking. Flora said he was nice. Everyone was seated, now. Mr. Lancaster blew his whistle.

The band immediately struck up “El Capitan” and Mr. Lancaster began running very swiftly around the circle, counting off couples as he ran. Sixteen of them rose to dance. They led off in a romping gallop. A little group of dowagers had gathered behind the favour table, Jane’s mother among them. The whistle blew imperiously. The dancers raced for favours. The first girl on the floor was Flora. She was holding a great hoop of paper flowers over her head. An eager young man dragged Mrs. Furness, lightly protesting, from the group of dowagers. She caught up her train and whirled off in his arms. Jane caught the gleam of disapproval in her mother’s eye. The floor was crowded now. The whistle blew again. The girls formed in a great circle, with hoops upraised, the men in another around them. Mr. Lancaster was miraculously agile and very active, coattails flying, in the centre. Stephen Carver had joined the line of men. Both circles began revolving rapidly in opposite directions. The whistle blew. The men took partners. The dancing started once more.

Jane sat very excitedly on the edge of her gold chair, her eyes bright with pleasure. She didn’t bother to talk to her partner. Cotillions were fun.

“Wait for me!” a young man called, waving his white-gloved hand. He returned at once with a crepe-paper boa. Jane flung it around her neck and sprang into his arms. Halfway round the room the whistle parted them. Jane joined the great crowd of girls at one end of the floor. The whistle blew and the men came racing, slipping, sliding down upon them. Jane found herself in the arms of Stephen Carver. She looked up in his face and laughed.

“You’re the girl I met at supper,” he said. He was really very handsome. And he danced divinely.

“You met lots of girls at supper,” said Jane, laughing.

“I remember you,” said Stephen. Jane felt pleasantly elated. He was nice, just as Flora said. The whistle blew.

“Refavour!” shouted the commanding voice of Mr. Bert Lancaster.

“Don’t let’s,” said Stephen. This seemed strangely anarchistic. Jane was a little doubtful. But Stephen’s arm continued to hold her firmly, steering her steadily away from the favour table to the empty end of the room. Jane was afraid she was being conspicuous. But she loved to waltz. In a moment whirling couples were all around them. The whistle blew and they were inevitably parted. In the serpentine line of girls, however, he incredibly found her again.

“You’re a beautiful dancer,” he said.

“Our steps go well together,” said Jane simply.

“You bet they do,” said Stephen, and his arm tightened slightly. Jane was almost glad when the whistle sounded and he returned her to her chair. Of course he was Flora’s cousin. But she had only just met him.

Mr. Bert Lancaster was really outdoing himself. The dancing waxed fast and furious. Soon the girls looked a little dishevelled and the young men very hot indeed. The chairs were heaped with the debris of favours. The crowd around the punch-bowl in the hall grew thicker. In spite of Mr. Furness’s open windows the room was very warm.

Flora was on the floor every minute. Her mother was constantly whirling past. Jane caught a glimpse of Mr. Lancaster dancing with Muriel. Muriel had on a red paper sunbonnet. Her hair was loosened around her flushed face and she was leaning back to look up at Mr. Lancaster as they waltzed. Her gloved hand, outstretched in his, held her swirling blue train. Mr. Lancaster seemed to have forgotten all about the whistle. Stephen Carver blew his and the couples all parted, a little hesitantly. Mr. Lancaster remembered, then. He led a grand right and left with abandon and ended it just where he could catch up Muriel at the end of the line. They raced off together in a rollicking two-step.

Mrs. Furness began to look just a little tired. Faint shadows showed beneath her eyes and in the hollows of her cheeks. She sat with the dowagers, now, smiling over her spangled fan, springing up to offer great armfuls of favours to insistent young men as they bore down on the table.

Jane danced and danced until her pink-slippered feet were weary. It must be growing late, she thought. She hated to have the party over. The favour table was nearly depleted. Some of the dowagers were already gone. She kept meeting Stephen Carver in the cotillion figures. He had favoured her four times. Suddenly she found herself hand in hand with him in a circle of six that should have been four. He dropped out at once, taking her with him.

“That’s a leading from the Lord,” he said. “Let’s go and get some punch.”

They slipped out into the hall together.

“What’s your name?” he said. “Do you know, I can’t remember it!”

“Jane Ward,” said Jane.

“You look like a Jane,” he said.

She laughed at that.

“It’s a very plain name,” she said. “I was named for my grandmother.”

“Not plain,” he answered. “Simple. Like your hair. Like your face, too.”

They had reached the punch table. He handed her her glass.

“Come and drink it on the sofa,” he said.

They walked across the hall and sat down together.

“I’m going to like Chicago,” said Stephen. “I didn’t think I would.”

Jane thought that was just the way she had felt, when she first came home from Bryn Mawr.

“Are you lonely?” she asked.

“Not very,” said Stephen. “Just bored. I live in Miss Miller’s boardinghouse.”

Everyone knew Miss Miller. Lots of young men boarded with her.

“That’s just around the corner from me,” said Jane.

“May I come to see you?” asked Stephen.

“Of course,” said Jane.

“May I come Sunday?” Sunday was day after tomorrow.

“Of course,” said Jane again.

“Flora told me about you,” said Stephen. “You’re a great friend of hers, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Jane. She had finished her punch. The music sounded very alluring. Jane began to think of her deserted partner. “We’d better go back,” she said.

Stephen rose a little reluctantly. The whole room was up, when they returned, twisting about in an intricate basket.

“That’s the next to the last figure,” said Stephen. “There’s just one more for Flora.”

They mingled with the dancers as the basket broke into couples. Jane had seen her mother watching her as she came in from the hall. Her eye was very indulgent. The whistle blew. Everyone sat down. Jane’s partner greeted her with enthusiasm.

“Look what’s coming,” he said.

Mr. Bert Lancaster was dragging a gold chair out into the centre of the ballroom floor. In one hand he held a silver mirror and a red paper rose.

“All men up!” he shouted.

A regiment of black-garbed figures sprang to the command. The gaily dressed girls, left on the golden chairs, looked like a flower border around the room. “Of course,” said Jane to herself, “wall flowers!” She had never thought of it before.

Mr. Lancaster was running down the room toward Flora’s scat. Muriel was sitting beside her. Jane could see her smiling steadily at Mr. Lancaster as he approached. She had taken off the sunbonnet, now, and her curly hair was ruffled all over her head. The blue snood had slipped rakishly askew. Flora was putting down her roses on the empty seat at her side. Mr. Lancaster made a little gesture. Both girls half rose. Flora sank back in her seat at once, but Muriel stood up, still smiling steadily. Mr. Lancaster paused an instant. Muriel laughed, a little wickedly. Everyone could see that she was laughing at Mr. Lancaster. Her blue eyes were dancing straight into his.

Suddenly Mr. Lancaster seized her hand and began running with her down the room. Flora looked very much astonished. She picked up her roses again. Muriel was laughing still and her hair was flying. She was trying to tuck it under the snood with one hand as she ran. Mr. Lancaster almost hurled her into the little gold chair and gave her the red rose and the silver mirror. His face looked very queer. He blew his whistle and the band began playing “After the Ball.”

The long line of men filed by, one by one, each pausing to peer over Muriel’s shoulder in the silver mirror. Muriel was laughing all the time. She shook her head at every face in the glass. Stephen Carver was the last to go by. His hand was outstretched to help her to her feet. She shook her head at him. He looked very much astonished. Everyone was watching rather breathlessly. The men in front of Muriel were a little nonplussed.

Suddenly she threw the rose right over their heads, straight into the hands of Mr. Bert Lancaster. He almost dropped it, he was so surprised. Then he suddenly made a dash for Muriel. The music swirled up in a triumphant wave. Muriel and Mr. Lancaster began dancing. For a moment they were the only couple on the floor.

Then the other men began to favour. Four slid at once to Flora’s feet. Stephen Carver catapulted himself at Jane. Everyone was dancing at once, almost immediately. Round and round the room they went, swooping and swirling with the lilting strains of the waltz. Stephen was looking down all the time at Jane’s brown head. She could feel his eyes on her. She could feel them so hard that she didn’t look up.

The music rose and fell, in surging waves of sound. Some of the men began to sing, sentimentally. The light voices of girls joined airily in the chorus. The tender words rose mockingly, liltingly, above the strains of the band.

“After the ball is over, after the break of morn,
After the dancers’ leaving, after the stars are gone⁠—”

The verse was a little ridiculous, Jane reflected. Not up to the music.

“Many a heart is aching, if you could read them all,
Many the hopes that have vanished⁠—after⁠—the⁠—ball!”

The words were silly. Unreal, like all poor poetry. Stephen was a marvellous dancer. Dancing was heaven, thought Jane.

But the party was over. The waltz changed insensibly into the familiar cadence of “Home, Sweet Home.” Everyone kept on dancing. When the band finally stopped, it was greeted with a burst of applause. A little staccato rattle of clapping hands.

Flora was standing at the ballroom door with Mr. and Mrs. Furness. She looked excited and happy as she shook hands with the departing guests. But her mother’s face was very cold and proud. A little bright spot of color burned in either cheek. She held her little blonde head very high. Mr. Furness looked more sleepy than anything else.

Mr. Lancaster passed from the room at Muriel’s elbow. Flora’s mother hardly spoke to either of them. Muriel kissed Flora. Jane’s mother turned up at her side as she was talking to Stephen in the hall.

“ ’Til Sunday, then,” he said, as he turned away.

“Flora’s cousin,” said Mrs. Ward, as they went down the stairs, “is very attractive.”

“Isn’t he?” said Jane indifferently.

“He comes from a very good Boston family,” said Mrs. Ward, “on his father’s side.”

They had reached the entrance to the dressing-room. The dressing-room was very crowded. Mrs. Ward had nothing more to say until the doorman had shut the cab door upon them.

“Did you see,” she asked, then, at once, “what Bert Lancaster did?”

“I thought Muriel did it,” said Jane. “It was disgraceful of both of them,” said Mrs. Ward.

“Muriel’s like that sometimes,” said Jane very wisely.

“Lily Furness looked as if she were through with him forever,” said her mother.

Jane stifled a yawn. She felt suddenly very sleepy.

“But I don’t suppose she is,” said Mrs. Ward.

IV

The Christmas tree spread its green boughs in the darkest corner of the library. The little pink wax angel at its top almost touched the ceiling. The little pink wax angel had always crowned the Christmas tree. Jane could remember the time when she had thought it was very wonderful of Santa Claus to remember to bring it back every year.

Mr. Ward sat comfortably in his leather armchair. He was smoking a new Christmas cigar. Mrs. Ward was watching the Christmas candles a little anxiously. She was always afraid of fire. Isabel was sitting on the floor under the tree trying to keep the baby from snatching the low-hung ornaments. The baby could creep, now, and he was very inquisitive. Robin Bridges was standing beside them, watching his son with a proud proprietary twinkle in his small blue eyes. His gold-bowed spectacles glittered in the candlelight. Around his neck was a welter of Christmas socks and ties. He was really a dear, thought Jane.

The room was a chaos of tissue paper and scarlet ribbon. Jane had a new gold bracelet. She was awfully pleased with it. Agnes had sent her a book of poetry. It was called Barrack Room Ballads. It was written by Rudyard Kipling. Jane had never heard of him. She had dipped into them and she thought they were very good. She had never read anything just like them.

Christmas morning was fun. This year it was more fun than ever because there was Isabel’s baby. He was called John Ward after his grandfather. Jane’s father had been very pleased about that.

Christmas morning was gay. The doorbell kept ringing and Minnie kept bringing in intriguing little packages. Several potted plants had come for Mrs. Ward. They stood on the window seat, underneath the holly wreath. But Mrs. Ward was more interested in her family than in her presents.

“Look out, Isabel!” she said. “Don’t let him suck that cornucopia!”

Isabel exchanged a silent glance with Robin. Suddenly Minnie appeared once more on the threshold. She held a long florist’s box in her arms.

“For Miss Jane,” she said.

“Somebody loves you!” cried Isabel.

Jane jumped up, flushing with pleasure. People didn’t send her flowers very often. Not as they did Flora and Muriel, who had always a bunch of violets on their coat collars. Jane opened the box. Twelve beautiful dark red roses. Jane buried her nose in their dusky petals.

“Who sent them?” cried Isabel.

Jane looked at the card.

“Stephen Carver,” she said. She was very much surprised. She had only seen Stephen Carver twice since Flora’s dance, two weeks ago.

“How nice of him,” remarked her mother. “A young man like that, in a boardinghouse.”

“He can afford it,” said Isabel. “Rosalie says his father is the president of the Bay State Trust Company.”

No one could ever tell Jane’s mother anything about anyone’s father.

“It was said at the time,” she remarked thoughtfully, “that Lily Furness’s sister-in-law married very well.”

Jane took the roses out of the box. Their steins were very long and impressive.

“Get a vase, Minnie,” said Mrs. Ward.

The doorbell rang again. Minnie hurried to answer it. A sound of stifled laughter arose in the hall.

“Don’t announce us, Minnie. We want to surprise them,” said a tittering voice. The library door was flung open and Muriel stood on the threshold. She was dressed in a bright red broadcloth suit, trimmed with black astrakhan fur. Her hands were tightly clasped in a little black muff. A great bunch of white violets was pinned to her shoulder. Behind her loomed the tall figure of Mr. Bert Lancaster.

“Come in!” cried Isabel, scrambling to her feet. Mrs. Ward began to pick up the tissue paper.

Muriel just stood in the doorway and laughed. Her cheeks were bright red from the frosty December air. Her eyes were very starry.

“Merry Christmas!” she said. “Do you know why we’ve come?”

Mrs. Ward stopped picking up the paper. Everyone stared at Muriel.

“We’re engaged!” cried Muriel. She took Mr. Bert Lancaster’s hand and pulled him into the room.

Everyone began talking at once. In the midst of the uproar Jane felt Muriel’s arms around her neck and the cold pressure of her cheek against her own.

“Isn’t it exciting?” said Muriel. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa now, smiling up at all of them. Mr. Lancaster stood looking down at her. He looked just a little embarrassed, Jane thought, but awfully handsome, with his overcoat thrown open over his red muffler and his tall silk hat in his hand. Jane stared at him incredulously. She couldn’t believe that Muriel was going to⁠—marry him. It made Jane feel very queer to think that anyone just her age was really going to marry anyone. And Mr. Bert Lancaster. He was older than Robin. He was older than Freddy Waters. He was almost old enough to be Muriel’s father.

“Look at my ring,” said Muriel, pulling her hand out of the little black muff. It was the largest solitaire that Jane had ever seen.

“Oh⁠—Muriel!” said Isabel reverently.

“We’ve got to go,” said Muriel, jumping up. “We just came for a minute. We’ve got to go and tell Flora.”

Jane saw her mother and Isabel exchange a covert glance.

“We’ll be married Easter Week,” said Muriel. “Of course, Jane, darling, I want you for a bridesmaid. Rosalie’s going to be matron of honour,” She was out in the hall already. She was hanging on Mr. Lancaster’s arm. Jane and Isabel and Robin trouped with them to the front door. It was barely closed before Jane heard her mother’s voice upraised in shocked surprise in the library.

“Well⁠—it’s happened,” she said.

They all went back to the tree.

“Mrs. Lester did all she could,” said Isabel.

“And she’s going over, now, to tell Flora.” For a moment Jane’s mother’s eyes met Isabel’s.

“Do you suppose,” said Isabel at last, “that Muriel really knows?”

“Everyone knows,” said Mrs. Ward. There was a brief pause.

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Ward, “we must let bygones be bygones.”

“Just the same⁠—” said Isabel. Then, “I suppose Flora will be a bridesmaid.”

“Lily Furness,” said Mrs. Ward very firmly, “is just reaping what she sowed.”

Jane was glad to hear the doorbell ring again. In a moment Minnie appeared on the threshold.

“Mr. Carver,” she said, “for Miss Jane.” Stephen Carver’s tall blond head was visible over her shoulder. Mrs. Ward made another dive at the tissue paper.

“This room is a sight,” she murmured hurriedly.

“Merry Christmas!” said Jane.

Stephen Carver advanced into the library a little shyly. He had never met Isabel. In shaking hands he almost stepped on the baby. Robin snatched his son from the path of danger.

“Isn’t this nice?” said Stephen. “I didn’t think I was going to see a Christmas tree.”

“Your roses were beautiful,” said Jane. Stephen looked very much pleased.

“Sit down, Mr. Carver,” said Jane’s mother.

“Have a cigarette,” said Robin.

“Christmas at Miss Miller’s must be rather dreary,” said Isabel.

Jane’s father was looking at Stephen rather steadily behind a cloud of cigar smoke. He looked pleased at what he saw, however, and a little amused. Stephen turned to Jane.

“I⁠—I hope you don’t mind my dropping in like this,” he said, “on a family party.” His smile was still a little shy. Jane beamed at him reassuringly.

“Why don’t you stay to luncheon?” said Mrs. Ward very cordially. “Since you’re just at that boardinghouse.”

Stephen’s face lit up.

“I’d love to,” he said. “If⁠—If⁠—”

Jane’s eyes began to twinkle.

“Don’t hesitate,” she said mockingly. “We have plum pudding on Christmas with brandy sauce.”

“I wasn’t hesitating!” said Stephen indignantly. Then added humbly, “I was just thinking⁠—do⁠—do you really want me?”

“Of course we do,” said Jane’s mother.

Stephen’s eyes questioned Jane’s a little uncertainly. He wasn’t speaking to her mother. Jane felt a pleasing sense of power. Her father looked even more amused.

“Why, of course, stay,” said Jane loftily.

Stephen looked extremely delighted. Jane’s sense of power increased. She glanced at him rather archly. She felt just like Flora and Muriel.

“Run and tell Minnie to put on another place, Jane,” said Mrs. Ward. And Jane felt just like Jane again. She was glad Stephen had come, however. It would keep her mother and Isabel from talking. She felt very badly about Muriel’s engagement.