ling," he said. He stooped over her and put his hand on her
shoulder.

The face she lifted to him was ambiguous. She had not wept again; on the
contrary, he felt sure that she had been intently thinking. The result
of her thought, now, was a look of resolute serenity. But he was sure
that she did not feel serene. For the first time, Karen was hiding her
feeling from him. "Well, darling," she replied.

She got up and put her arms around his neck; she looked at him, smiling
calmly; then, as if struck by a sudden memory, she said: "It is the
night of the dance, Gregory."

They were to dine at Edith Morton's and go on to Karen's first dance.
Under Betty's supervision she had already made progress through
half-a-dozen lessons, though she had not, she confessed to Gregory,
greatly distinguished herself at them. "_I'll_ get you round all right,"
he had promised her. They looked forward to the dance.

"So it is," said Gregory. "It's not time to dress yet, is it?"

"It's only half-past six. Shall I wear my white silk, Gregory, with the
little white rose wreath?"

"Yes, and the nice little square-toed white silk shoes--like a Reynolds
lady's--and like nobody else's. I do so like your square toes."

"I cannot bear pinched toes," said Karen. "My father gave me a horror of
that; and Tante. Her feet are as perfect as her hands. She has all her
shoes made for her by a wonderful old man in Vienna who is an artist in
shoes. She was looking well, wasn't she, Tante?" Karen added, in even
tones. Gregory and she were sitting now on the sofa together, their arms
linked and hand-in-hand.

"Beautiful," said Gregory with sincerity. "How well that odd head-dress
became her."

"Didn't it? It was nice that she liked those pretty teacups, wasn't it.
And appreciated our view; even though," Karen smiled, taking now another
bull by the horns, "she was so hard on our flat. I'm afraid she feels
her Bouddha _en travestie_ here."

"Well, he is, of course. I do hope," said Gregory, also seizing his
bull, "that she didn't think me rude in my joke about being willing to
burn him. And you will change everything--burn anything--barring the
Bouddha and the teacups--that you want to, won't you, dear?"

"No; I wouldn't, even if I wanted to; and I don't want to. Perhaps Tante
did not quite understand. I think it may take a little time for her to
understand your jokes or you her outspokenness. She is like a child in
her candour about the things she lik