and he used
to be so romantic."

He used to be so romantic! She repeated this to Susan that evening when,
after Miss Willy's departure for the night, she took her friend into the
spare room to show her the first shapings of the princess gown.

"Do you remember that we used to call him an incurable Don Quixote?" she
asked. "And now he has become so different that at times it makes me
smile to think of him as he was when I first knew him. I suppose it's
better so, it's more normal. He used to be what Uncle Cyrus called
'flighty,' bent on reforming the world and on improving people, you
know, and now he doesn't seem to care whether outside things are good or
bad, just as long as his plays go well and he can give us all the money
we want."

"It's natural, isn't it?" asked Susan. "One can't stay young forever,
you see."

"And yet in some ways he doesn't appear to be a bit older. I like his
hair being grey, don't you? It makes his colour look even richer than
before."

"Yes," said Susan, "I like his hair and I like him. Only I wish he
didn't have to leave you by yourself so much of the time."

"He is going to take me back with him on Wednesday. Miss Willy is making
this dress for me to wear. I want to look nice because, of course,
everybody will be noticing Oliver."

"It's lovely, and I'm sure you'll look as sweet as the angel that you
are, Jinny," answered Susan, stooping to kiss her.

By Tuesday night the dress was finished, and Virginia was stuffing the
sleeves with tissue paper before packing it into her trunk, when Oliver
came into the room and stood watching her in silence.

"I do hope it won't get crumpled," she said anxiously as she spread a
towel over the tray. "Miss Willy is so proud of it, and I don't believe
I could have got anything prettier in New York."

"Virginia," he said suddenly, "you've set your heart on going to-morrow,
haven't you?"

Turning from the trunk, she looked up at him with a tender, inquiring
smile. Above her head the electric light, with which Oliver and the
girls had insisted on replacing the gas-jets that she preferred, cast a
hard glitter over the hollowed lines of her face and over the thinning
curls which she had striven to brush back from her temples. Her figure,
unassisted as yet by Miss Willy's ruffles, looked so fragile in the
pitiless glare that his heart melted in one of those waves of
sentimentality which, because they were impotent to affect his conduct,
cost him s