d with the evident
intention of presenting me. I saw by the way the lady gave me her
shoulder, pushing in, speaking low, that she didn't want anything of the
sort, and quietly dropped back. I barely got a side view of Worth's
face, but plainly his calmness was a disappointment to her.

"After these years!" I caught the fringes of what she was saying. "It
seems like a dream. To-night--of all times. But you will come over to
our table--for a minute anyhow? They're just going to--to drink our
health--Oh, Worth!" That last in a sort of impassioned whisper. And all
he answered was,

"If I might bring Mr. Boyne with me, Mrs. Vandeman." At her protesting
expression, he finished, "Or do I call you Ina, still?"

She gave him a second look of reproach, acknowledging my introduction in
that way some women have which assures you they don't intend to know you
in the least the next time. We crossed to the table and met the others.

If anybody had asked my opinion, I should have said it was a mistake to
go. Our advent in that party--or rather Worth Gilbert's advent--was
bound to throw the affair into a sort of consternation. No mistake about
that. The bridegroom at the head of the table seemed the only one able
to keep a grip on the situation. He welcomed Worth as though he wanted
him, took hold of me with a glad hand, and presented me in such rapid
succession to everybody there that I was dizzy. And through it all I had
an eye for Worth as he met and disposed of the effusive welcome of the
younger Thornhill girls. Either of the twins, as I found them to be,
would, I judged, have been more than willing to fill out sister Ina's
unexpired term, and the little snub-nosed one, also a sister it seemed,
plainly adored him as a hero, sexlessly, as they sometimes can at that
age.

While yet he shook hands with the girls, and swapped short replies for
long questions, I became conscious of something odd in the air. Plain
enough sailing with the young ladies; all the noise with them echoed the
bride's, "After all these years." They clattered about whether he looked
like his last photograph, and how perfectly delightful it was going to
be to have him back in Santa Ysobel again.

But when it came to the chaperone, a Mrs. Dr. Bowman, things were
different. No longer young, though still beautiful in what I might call
a sort of wasted fashion, with slim wrists and fragile fingers, and a
splendid mass of rich, auburn hair, I had been startled, e