had left her
conscious of an insistent and unaccountable little ache. The knowledge
that there could be no more chance meetings, that he had gone right out
of her ken, seemed like the sudden closing of a door which had just been
opening to her. It had somehow taken the zest out of things.

"Voila!" Virginie drew back to survey the results of her labours,
turning for approval to Gillian, who was in attendance in her capacity
of accompanist. "Is it not that mademoiselle looks ravishing?"

"Quite ravishing, Virginie," agreed Gillian. "Did you expect her to look
anything else by the time you had finished decking her out?" she added
teasingly.

"It is nothing that I do," responded the old Frenchwoman seriously.
"Mademoiselle cannot help but be beautiful to the eye--_le bon dieu_ has
created her like that."

"I believe He has," assented Gillian, smiling.

As she spoke the bell of the telephone instrument on the table beside
her rang imperatively and she lifted the receiver. Magda, watching her
face as she took the message, saw it suddenly blanch.

"Coppertop! . . . He's ill!" she gasped.

"Ill?" Magda could hardly credit it. Two hours ago they had left the
child in perfect health.

"Yes." Gillian swallowed, moistening her dry lips. "They've sent for the
doctor. It's croup. Oh!"--despairingly, and letting the receiver fall
unheeded from her grasp--"What am I to do? What am I to do?"

Magda stepped forward, the filmy draperies of the dress in which she
was to dance floating cloudily about her as she moved. She picked up the
receiver as it hung dangling aimlessly from the stand and replaced it on
its clip.

"Do?" she said quietly. "Why, you'll go straight home, of course. As
quickly as the car can take you. Virginie"--turning to the maid--"fly
and order the car round at once."

Gillian looked at her distractedly.

"But you? Who'll play for you? I can't go! I can't leave you!" Her voice
was shaken by sobs. "Oh, Coppertop!"

Magda slipped a comforting arm round her shoulder.

"Of course you'll go--and at once, too. See, here's your coat"--lifting
it up from the back of the chair where Gillian had thrown it. "Put it
on."

Hardly conscious of what was happening, Gillian allowed herself to be
helped into the coat. Suddenly recollection returned.

"But your dance--your dance, Magda? You've forgotten!"

Magda shook her head.

"No. It will be all right," she said soothingly. "Don't worry,
Gillyflower. _You've_ fo