oked up at me, I bent over and
kissed her under the leafless trees.

CHAPTER XX

IN WHICH SOCIETY RECEIVES US

It was a bright December evening when we returned to Richmond, and drove
through the frosty air to our new home. The house was large and modern,
with a hideous brown stone front, and at the top of the brown stone
steps several girl friends of Sally's were waiting to receive us. Beyond
them, in the brilliantly lighted hall, I saw masses of palms and roses
under the oak staircase.

"Oh, you bad Sally, not even to ask us to your wedding. And you know how
we adore one!" cried a handsome, dark girl in a riding habit, named
Bonny Page. "How do you do, Mr. Starr? We're to call you 'Ben' now
because you've married our cousin."

I made some brief response, and while I spoke, I felt again the old
sense of embarrassment, of strangeness in my surroundings, that always
came upon me in a gathering of women--especially of girls. With Sally I
never forgot that I was a strong man,--with Bonny Page I remembered only
that I was a plain one. As she stood there, with her arm about Sally,
and her black eyes dancing with fun, she looked the incarnate spirit of
mischief,--and beside the spirit of mischief I felt decidedly heavy. She
was a tall, splendid girl, with a beautiful figure,--the belle of
Richmond and the best horsewoman of the state. I had seen her take a
jump that had brought my heart to my throat, and come down on the other
side with a laugh. A little dazzling, a little cold, fine, quick,
generous to her friends, and merciless to her lovers, I had wondered
often what subtle sympathy had knit Sally and herself so closely
together.

"You'd always promised that I should be your bridesmaid," she remarked
reproachfully; "she's hurt us dreadfully, hasn't she, Bessy? And it's
very forgiving of us to warm her house and have her dinner ready for
her."

Bessy, the little heroine of the azalea wreath and my first party,
murmured shyly that she hoped the furniture was placed right and that
the dinner would be good.

"Oh, you darlings, it's too sweet of you!" said Sally, entering the
drawing-room, amid palms and roses, with an arm about the neck of each.
"You know, don't you," she went on, "that poor Aunt Mitty's not coming
kept me from having even you? How is she, Bonny? O Bonny, she won't
speak to me."

Immediately she was clasped in Bonny's arms, where she shed a few tears
on Bonny's handsome shoulder.

"She'l