persistently more solid--and Florence was always
striving to attain a certain weight. Wanning used sometimes to
wonder why these disconcerting fluctuations could not go the other
way; why Roma could not melt away as easily as did her sister, who
had to be sent to Palm Beach to save the precious pounds.

"I don't see why you ever put Rickie Allen in charge of the English
country dances," Florence said to her sister, as they sat down. "He
knows the figures, of course, but he has no real style."

Roma looked annoyed. Rickie Allen was one of the men who came to the
house almost often enough.

"He is absolutely to be depended upon, that's why," she said firmly.

"I think he is just right for it, Florence," put in Mrs. Wanning.
"It's remarkable he should feel that he can give up the time; such a
busy man. He must be very much interested in the movement."

Florence's lip curled drolly under her soup spoon. She shot an
amused glance at her mother's dignity.

"Nothing doing," her keen eyes seemed to say.

Though Florence was nearly thirty and her sister a little beyond,
there was, seriously, nothing doing. With so many charms and so much
preparation, they never, as Florence vulgarly said, quite pulled it
off. They had been rushed, time and again, and Mrs. Wanning had
repeatedly steeled herself to bear the blow. But the young men went
to follow a career in Mexico or the Philippines, or moved to
Yonkers, and escaped without a mortal wound.

Roma turned graciously to her father.

"I met Mr. Lane at the Holland House today, where I was lunching
with the Burtons, father. He asked about you, and when I told him
you were not so well as usual, he said he would call you up. He
wants to tell you about some doctor he discovered in Iowa, who cures
everything with massage and hot water. It sounds freakish, but Mr.
Lane is a very clever man, isn't he?"

"Very," assented Wanning.

"I should think he must be!" sighed Mrs. Wanning. "How in the world
did he make all that money, Paul? He didn't seem especially
promising years ago, when we used to see so much of them."

"Corporation business. He's attorney for the P. L. and G.," murmured
her husband.

"What a pile he must have!" Florence watched the old negro's slow
movements with restless eyes. "Here is Jenny, a Contessa, with a
glorious palace in Genoa that her father must have bought her.
Surely Aldrini had nothing. Have you seen the baby count's pictures,
Roma? They're very cun