ion. It
was the open market . . . appraisal. . . .

No matter how charming she might be in the motor rides with the four,
how pretty and piquant in the afternoon at the piano, how melodious in
the evenings upon the steps, the full measure of his admiration was not
exacted.

Sagely she surmised this. Anxiously she awaited the event.

It was her first real dance. It was her first American affair. Casually,
in the evenings at the Lodge, they had danced to the phonograph and she
had been initiated into new steps and amazed at the manner of them, but
there had been nothing of the slightest formality.

Now the Martins were entertaining over the week-end, and giving a dance
to which the neighborhood--meaning the neighborhood of the Martins'
acquaintance--was assembling.

And again Maria Angelina felt the inrush of fear, the overwhelming
timidity of inexperience held at bay by pride alone . . . again she knew
the tormenting question which she had confronted in that dim old glass
at the Palazzo Santonini on the day when she had heard of the adventure
before her.

She asked it that night of a different glass, the big, built-in mirror
of the dressing-room at the Martins given over to the ladies--a mirror
that was a dissolving kaleidoscope of color and motion, of bright
silks, bare shoulders and white arms, of pink cheeks, red lips and
shining hair.

Advancing shyly among the young girls, filled with divided wonder at
their self-possession and their extreme decolletage, Ri-Ri gazed at the
glass timidly, determinedly, fatefully, as one approaches an oracle, and
out from the glittering surface was flung back to her a radiant image of
reassurance--a vision of a slim figure in filmiest white, slender arms
and shoulders bare, dark hair not braided now, but piled high upon her
head--a revelation of a nape of neck as young and kissable as a baby's
and yet an addition of bewildering years to her immaturity.

To-night she was glad of the white skin, that was a gift from Mamma. The
white coral string, against the satin softness of her throat, revealed
its opalescent flush. She was immaculate, exquisite, like some figurine
of fancy--an image of youth as sweet and innocently troubling as a May
night.

"You're a love," said Ruth heartily, appearing at her side, very
stunning herself in jade green, with her smooth hair a miracle of
shining perfection.

"And you're--different," added Ruth in a slightly puzzled voice, looking
her sma