mur of their voices. But not a word that
they said was intelligible.

They were talking of Mary. Her introduction to her husband's friends had
been an ordeal for Bob Flippin's daughter. But she had gone through it
simply, quietly, unaffectedly, with the Judge by her side standing
sponsor for his son's wife in chivalrous and stately fashion, with Mrs.
Beaufort at her elbow helping her over the initial small talk of her
presentation. With Truxton beaming, and with Becky drawing her into that
charmed circle of the younger set which might so easily have shut her
out. More than one of those younger folk had had it in mind that at last
year's ball Mary Flippin had sat in the gallery. But not even the most
snobbish of them would have dared to brave Becky Bannister's
displeasure. Back of her clear-eyed serenity was a spirit which flamed
and a strength which accomplished. Becky was an amiable young person who
could flash fire at unfairness or injustice or undue assumption of
superiority.

The music had stopped and the balconies were filled. George, in the
darkness, was aware of the beauty of the scene--the lantern making
yellow moons--the golden groups beneath them. Mary and Truxton with a
friend or two were in the balcony adjoining the one where Becky sat with
young Paine.

"Isn't she a dear and a darling, Randy?" Becky was saying; "and how well
she carries it off. Truxton is so proud of her, and she is so pretty."

"She can't hold a candle to you, Becky."

"It is nice of you to say it." She leaned on the stone balustrade and
swung her fan idly.

"I am not saying it to be nice."

"Aren't you--oh----!" She gave a quick exclamation.

"What's the matter?"

"I dropped my fan."

"I'll go and get it," he said, and just then the music started.

"No," said Becky, "never mind now. This is your dance with Mary--and she
mustn't be kept waiting."

"Aren't you dancing this?"

"It is Truxton's, and I begged off. Run along, dear boy."

When he was gone she leaned over the rail. Below was a tangle of bushes,
and the white gleam of a stone bench. Beyond the bushes was a path, and
farther on a fountain. It was a rather imposing fountain, with a Neptune
in bronze riding a seahorse, with nymphs on dolphins in attendance.
Neptune poured water from a shell which he held in his hand, and the
dolphins spouted great streams. The splash of the water was a grateful
sound in the stillness of the hot night, and the mist which the slight