ringly; but Julia had been
inscrutable in her demur, until begged in such terms as were hard to
refuse.

"You're the only two people I really know intimately," Marie said; "if
you refuse, you'll spoil it all. In fact I don't believe I can have a
man to dinner alone without exciting Mr. and Mrs. Hall Porter."

When she uttered this little vain thing, she laughed and looked in the
glass and patted her hair.

"I'll come," Julia promised.

As Marie Kerr came out of her bedroom and proceeded down the corridor
to inspect the table arrangements, she was a pretty picture of all
that a well-dressed, happy, healthy young woman should be. She paused
by the door of the erstwhile dressing-room to look in on the two elder
children, then entered the dining-room. Spotless napery and most of
the wedding-present silver equipped the table, as it used to do in the
early days of her marriage. Between the candlesticks were clusters of
violets. A bright wood fire burned upon the hearth, but the
golden-brown curtains were not yet drawn upon the evening. The
golden-brown carpet, newly cleaned, was speckless again. Marie moved
about, improving on the table arrangements, and the hands which
touched this or that into better design were little, slim and white.
The finger nails had regained their tapering prettiness. And as she
smiled with pleasure, between her lips an unblemished row of teeth
showed. She wore black, to her mother's memory, but her gown was the
last word in cut and contour; it opened in a long V to show her plump
white neck; underneath the filmy bodice a hint of mauve ribbons
gleamed. In her ears slender earrings twinkled. They were amethyst,
and had been her mother's. She had put them on for the first time that
evening as she dressed, because, regarding herself earnestly in the
glass, there had risen up over her shoulder, for no reason whatever,
the sleek pale face of the manicure girl, who wore emeralds in her
ears. And when she had clipped them on she was thrilled; they gave her
a distinctive, a resolute charm. She could smile at herself again in
that glass, at the colour and light and verve which had come back to
her. The face pictured there had all the roundness, the softness and
pinkiness of the face of the bride Marie, who had waked and looked
therein on wonderful mornings, but it held more than the face of Marie
the bride. It was strong; it had firmness and judgment and humour. It
was no fool of a face. Yet, as the wise