her stolen glance. Two
figures were ascending the opposite flight of stairs, looking at each
other while they inaudibly talked: Brenda, in filmy white diversified by
a thread of silver; Manlio, carrying over his arm, and in his absorption
letting trail a little, a white scarf beautiful with silver
embroideries; in his hand a white pearl fan. Brenda's face was angelic,
nothing less. When the young and rose-lipped cherubim are full of
celestial sensations and adoring, eternal thoughts, they must look as
Brenda did at that moment. Manlio's head was so turned that his
night-black hair alone was presented to our friends. Slowly the pair
mounted and was lost to sight.

Neither Gerald nor Mrs. Hawthorne made any comment. Gerald, after a
silence, spoke of Lily's increasing resemblance to her sister. Mrs.
Hawthorne was reminded that they must go to select some favors for Lily,
and led the way.

They sat together through the cotillion, and Gerald, because he had seen
the shadow of sadness on Mrs. Hawthorne's face, tried more than usual to
be a sympathetic companion, easy to talk to, easy to get on with. He was
always quick to see such things.

No trace of it remained. Her dimples were in full play, but he found it
according to his humor to continue uncritical, inexpressively tender,
toward this big, bonny child who never curbed the expression of a
complete kindness toward himself.

More interesting to them than any other dancers were naturally Brenda
and Manlio, partners for the cotillion. Certainly the plot for giving
those two a few beautiful last hours together was proving a success.
Brenda was calmly, collectedly luminous; Manlio, uplifted to the point
of not quite knowing what he did. Radiant and desperate, he looked to
Gerald, who found his state explained by the facts as he knew them.

"Poor things! Poor dears!" he thought, with the cold to-morrow in view,
yet retained his conviction of having done the unhappy lovers on the
whole a good turn.

He had been glad to find the Fosses sharing his point of view that to
forbid Giglioli a sight of Brenda before the long parting would have
been unnecessarily cruel. Mrs. Hawthorne, it seemed to him, had lost
sight of what was to follow. She was exclusively delighted with their
joy of the evening, she gave no thought to their misery next day. It was
amazing to him, the extent to which she had forgotten.

So he said aloud, "Poor things! Poor dears!" and discovered that it was