contrive
pretty things already in the shape of collars and blouses.

"You'd make an admirable curate's wife!" Quenrede laughingly assured
her. "_I_ shall have to marry a rich man and get my things from London."

"It will probably be the other way," declared Mother. "Stand still,
Queenie, I can't measure properly if you _will_ dance about!"

Though she was ready with a joke, as a matter of fact Quenrede was
having a severe struggle not to be snappy. For years and years she had
planned her "coming out," and she had decided upon a ball at Rotherwood,
and an absolute creation of a gown that was to be sent for from Paris.
There would have been some eclat then in emerging from the chrysalis
stage of the school-room and becoming a butterfly of society. To make
her first grown-up appearance at Mrs. Desmond's dance and in a home-made
dress seemed not so much a "coming out" as an "oozing out." There are
degrees in butterflies, and she feared her appearance would resemble not
the gorgeous "Red Admiral" or "Painted Lady," but the "Common White
Cabbage." If it had not been for the New Year's resolution, some traces
of her disappointment would have leaked out, but she kept the secret
bravely to herself. The family indeed knew she was not anxious to go,
but set her unwilling attitude down to mere shyness. Her mother never
guessed at the real reason.

There was a tremendous robing on the evening of January the ninth, with
Mother and Ingred for lady's-maids, and "The Orphan" hovering about,
offering to bring pins or hot water on the chance of getting a peep at
the proceedings. Mrs. Saxon stepped back, when all was complete, and
viewed the result somewhat in the spirit of an artist who has finished a
picture. It is an event in a mother's life when her first little girl
grows up and becomes a young lady. To-night Quenrede was to be launched
on the stream of society. Looked at critically, her appearance was very
satisfactory. Though the new dress might not be up to the level of a
fashion-plate, it certainly became her, and set off the pretty fair
face, white neck, and coils of gleaming flaxen hair.

"Your gloves and shoes and stockings are all right, and you've got a
nice handkerchief, and your fan," reviewed Mother, wrapping an evening
cloak round her handiwork. "Good-by, my bird! Enjoy yourself, and don't
be silly and shy."

"I shall keep awake till you come back!" Ingred assured her.

It was something at any rate to be going wit