ovely as she
looks."

"Yes, indeed," said Karen. "And you will meet her very soon, you see,
for she comes back in July."

Gregory sat and listened to their talk, satisfied that they were to get
on, yet with a slight discomfort. Betty questioned and Karen replied,
unaware that she revealed aspects of her past that Betty might not
interpret as she would feel it natural that they should be interpreted,
supremely unaware that any criticism could attach itself to her guardian
as a result of these revelations. Yes; she had met so-and-so and this
and that, in Rome, in Paris, in London or St. Petersburg; but no,
evidently, she could hardly say that she knew any of these people,
friends of Tante's though they were. The ambiguity of her status as
little camp-follower became defined for Betty's penetrating and
appraising eyes and the inappropriateness of the letter, with its
broken-hearted maternal tone, returned to Gregory with renewed irony. He
didn't want to share with Betty his hidden animosities and once or
twice, when her eye glanced past Karen and rested reflectively upon
himself, he knew that Betty was wondering how much he saw and how he
liked it. The Lippheims again made their socially unillustrious
appearance; Karen had so often stayed with them before Les Solitudes had
been built and while Tante travelled with Mrs. Talcott; she had never
stayed--Gregory was thankful for small mercies--with the Belots; Tante,
after all, had her own definite discriminations; she would not have
placed Karen in the charge of Chantefoy's lady of the Luxembourg,
however reputable her present position; but Gregory was uneasy lest
Karen should disclose how simply she took Madame Belot's past. The fact
that Karen's opportunities in regard to dress were so obviously
haphazard, coming up with the question of the trousseau, was somewhat
atoned for by the sum that Madame von Marwitz now sent--Gregory had
forgotten to ask the amount. "A hundred pounds," said Betty cheerfully;
"Oh, yes; we can get you very nicely started on that."

"Tante seems to think," said Karen, "that I shall have to be very gay
and have a great many dresses; but I hope it will not have to be so very
much. I am fond of quiet things."

"Well, especially at first, I suppose you will have a good many dinners
and dances; Gregory is fond of dancing, you know. But I don't think you
lead such a taxing social life, do you, Gregory? You are a rather sober
person, aren't you?"

"Th