ring madness, when every growing thing had expanded leaves
with furious haste, when the noise of children playing in the street
sounded loud through newly-opened windows, when, even on city streets,
every breath of the sweet, lively air was an intoxicating potion. Then,
with a bound, the heat was there. Evenings and nights were still cool,
but noons were as oppressive as in July. The scarcely expanded leaves
hung limp in a summer heat.

All during that eventful winter, Mrs. Emery had frequently remarked to
her sister-in-law that Lydia's social career progressed positively with
such brilliancy that it was like "something you read about." Mrs.
Sandworth invariably added the qualifying clause, "But in a very nice
book, you know, with only nice people in it, where everything comes out
nicely at the end." Her confidence in literature as a respectable source
of pleasure was not so guileless as Mrs. Emery's. It had been cruelly
shaken by dipping into some of the Russian novels of the doctor's.

Not infrequently the two ladies felt, with a happy importance, that they
were the authors of the book and that the agreeable episodes and
dramatic incidents which had kept the flow of the narrative so sparkling
were the product of their own creative genius. When April came on, and
Lydia agreed to the announcement of her engagement, they felt the need
of some remarkable way of signaling that important event and of closing
her season with a burst of glory. For her season had to end! Dr. Melton
said positively that if Lydia had another month of the life she had been
leading he would not be responsible for the consequences. "She has a
fine constitution, inherited from her farmer grandparents," he said,
smiling to see Mrs. Emery wince at this uncompromising statement of
Lydia's ancestry, "but her nervous organization is too fine for her own
good. And I warn you right now that if you get her nerves once really
jangled, I shall take to the woods. You can just give the case to
another doctor. It would be too much for _me_."

The girl herself insisted that she felt perfectly well and able to stand
more than when she first began going out. She affirmed this with some
impatience, her eyes very bright, her cheeks flushed, whenever her
godfather protested against a new undertaking. "When you get going, you
_can't_ stop," she told him, shaking off his detaining hand. Mrs. Emery
told the doctor that he'd forgotten the time when he was young or he'd