d, and promised already to be as great
a favourite as the irresistible Chris himself. Both were rich, both
fine-looking, straightforward, honourable men, proud of their own
integrity, their long-established family, and their old firm. Acton was
pleasantly at home in the Melrose, Liggett, and Von Behrens houses, the
very maids loved him, and his quiet singling out of Leslie for his
devotion had satisfied everyone's sense of what was fitting and
delightful. Pretty Leslie, back from a summer's idling with Aunt Annie
and the little boys, in California and Hawaii, had found Acton's
admiration waiting for her, with all the other joys of her debutante
winter.

And even the critical Aunt Annie had to admit that the little minx was
managing the whole matter with consummate skill. Leslie was not in the
least self-conscious with Acton; she turned to him with all the artless
confidence of a little sister. She asked him about her dancing partners,
and about her gowns, and she discussed with him all the various bits of
small gossip that concerned their own friends.

"Should I have said that, Acton?" she would ask, trustfully. "Shall I be
Marion's bridesmaid? Would you?--after I refused Linda Fox, you know. I
don't like to dance with Louis Davis, after what you told me; what shall
I do when he comes up to me?"

Acton was twenty-five, seven years her senior. He advised her earnestly,
over many a confidential cup of tea. And just lately, the grandmother
noticed exultantly, hardly a day passed that did not find the young
couple together.

"How did Acton happen to meet you, lovey?" she asked to-day, _apropos_
of the walk.

"Why, he telephoned Vesta Higgins's, and asked me how I was going to get
home. I said, walk. There was no use trying motor-cars, anyway, for they
were slipping and bumping terribly! He said he was in the neighbourhood,
and he came up. Granny----"

She paused, and her grandmother was conscious of a quickened heart-beat.
The thoughtful almost tremulous tone was not like giddy little Leslie.

"Granny," the girl repeated, presently, "how old was my mother when she
got married?"

"About twenty-two," the old woman said.

"And how old was Aunt Annie when she did?"

"Annie's about thirty-seven," her mother considered. "She was about
twenty-five. But why, dear?"

"Nothing," said Leslie, and fell silent.

She was still in the silk blouse and short homespun skirt that she had
worn at the athletic club luncheon, but