moment that
Claude had some hope of the ascendant. It was that Claude who spoke
when, after dinner, the men had rejoined the ladies.

"Your mother doesn't like my coming here."

Elsie threw him one of her frank, flying glances. "Well, she's asked
you, hasn't she?"

He smiled. "She only asked me at the last minute. I can see some other
fellow must have dropped out."

"You can see it because it's a dinner-party of elderly people to which
you naturally wouldn't be invited unless there had been the place to
fill. That constantly happens when people entertain as much as we do.
But it isn't a slight to be asked to come to the rescue. It's a
compliment. You never ask people to do that unless you count them as
real friends."

He insisted on his point. "I don't suppose it was her idea."

"You mean it was mine; but even if it was, it comes to the same thing.
She asked you. She needn't have done it."

He still insisted. "She did it, but she didn't want to." He added,
lowering his voice significantly, "And she was right."

He forced himself to return her gaze, which rested on him with unabashed
inquiry. Everything about her was unabashed. She was free from the
conventional manners of maidendom, not as one who has been emancipated
from them, but as one who has never had them. She might have belonged to
a generation that had outgrown the need for them, as perhaps she did.
Shyness, coyness, and emphasized reserve formed no part of her
equipment; but, on the other hand, she was clear--clear with a kind of
crystalline clearness, in eyes, in complexion, and in the staccato
quality of her voice.

"She's right--how?"

"Right--because I oughtn't to come. I'm--I'm not free to come."

"Do you mean--?" She paused, not because she was embarrassed, but only
to find the right words. She kept her eyes on his with a candor he could
do nothing but reciprocate. "Do you mean that you're bound--elsewhere?"

He nodded. "That's it."

"Oh!" She withdrew her eyes at last, letting her gaze wander vaguely
over the music-room, about which the other guests were seated. They were
lined on gilded settees against the white French-paneled walls, while a
young man played Chopin's Ballade in A flat on a grand piano in the far
corner. Not being in the music-room itself, but in the large, square
hall outside, the two young people could talk in low tones without
disturbing the company. If she betrayed emotion it was only in the
nervousness with which s