r, in the personal neatness but total indifference to fashion of
her prim, high-throated gown, she represented--frankly--everything
that he thought he most approved in woman. But nothing under the
starry heavens at that moment could have forced him to lead her as a
partner into that dazzling maelstrom of Mode and Modernity, because
she looked "so horridly eccentric and conspicuous"--compared to the
girls that he thought he didn't approve of at all!

"Why, of course you can dance! I only wish I could!" he lied
gallantly. And stole away as soon as he reasonably could to find
another partner, trusting devoutly that the darkness had not divulged
his actual features.

Five minutes later, through the window-frame of her magic picture,
little Eve Edgarton saw him pass, swinging his share of fairyland in
his arms.

And close behind him followed Barton, swinging his share of fairyland
in his arms! Barton the wonderful--at his best! Barton the
wonderful--with his best, the blonde, blonde girl of the marvelous
gowns and hats. There was absolutely no doubt whatsoever about them.
They were the handsomest couple in the room!

Furtively from her hidden corner little Eve Edgarton stood and
watched them. To her appraising eyes there were at least two other
girls almost as beautiful as Barton's partner. But no other man in the
room compared with Barton. Of that she was perfectly sure! His brow,
his eyes, his chin, the way he held his head upon his wonderful
shoulders, the way he stood upon his feet, his smile, his laugh, the
very gesture of his hands!

Over and over again as she watched, these two perfect partners came
circling through her vision, solemnly graceful or rhythmically
hoydenish--two fortune-favored youngsters born into exactly the same
sphere, trained to do exactly the same things in exactly the same way,
so that even now, with twelve years' difference in age between them,
every conscious vibration of their beings seemed to be tuned
instinctively to the same key.

Bluntly little Eve Edgarton looked back upon the odd, haphazard
training of her own life. Was there any one in this world whose
training had been exactly like hers? Then suddenly her elbow went
crooking up across her eyes to remember how Barton had looked in the
stormy woods that night--lying half naked--and almost wholly dead--at
her feet. Except for her odd, haphazard training, he would have been
dead! Barton, the beautiful--dead? And worse than dead--bur