hair was cropped and curled all over
her head like wicked Caracalla's. That was the fashion in England, he
had heard, where she had been spending the summer.

But who was this, at the end of the procession, after Mrs. Foss and
Brenda and the consul?

Hunt had a genuine surprise. Gerald Fane.

Now, wherefore Gerald Fane rather than Charlie Hunt?

Mrs. Foss, coming into the drawing-room, felt a glow of pleasure at the
scene meeting her eyes. The occasion, the success of it, had lifted life
for her above its usual plane. She could feel how blessed she was in
ways she did not sufficiently consider on common days when common cares
blinded her. It was a beautiful home, this of hers; here was a beautiful
room, with its mirrors and flowers and candle-light and happy guests.
She smiled at everybody and everything with a brooding sweetness.

Her sense of herself was satisfactory too at the moment. She felt her
dress--an old one, rejuvenated--to be becoming. She was young to have
grown children. Her blond hair did not show the silver threads among it.
She was as handsome in her older way as she had been when young, and she
was sure she was nicer. She had family and friends, all full of regard
for her. Her smile reflected the state of her mind and did one good to
see.

Her eyes resting upon Brenda--whom the reverend Arthur had tried to
capture the moment she appeared, and been baffled--Mrs. Foss in the
optimism of her mood said to herself that all would very likely go well
in that quarter; they ought not to worry as they did.

The pianist had struck up a polka. One still danced the polka in those
days, and the schottische and the dear old lancers, though the waltz was
already the favorite.

The floor was at first sparsely, then ever more thickly, sown with
hopping and revolving couples. Hunt, one arm curled around a young waist
in pink muslin, had enough of his mind to spare from the amount of talk
one has breath for while dancing to continue in a line of thought
started by an annoying little smart where a shred of skin had been
rubbed off his vanity when he saw Gerald come from the dining-room. He
mentally looked at himself and looked at Gerald, and after comparing the
pictures felt his astonishment increase. He could admit, as an excuse
for inviting Gerald instead of himself, that Gerald was an artist, and
this dinner had presumably been planned with the idea of having it
literary-artistic. But then--an artist! Gerald w