"Thank you," said Sally in a tone that, though little more than a
whisper, was more eloquent of her gratitude than the mere phrase could
possibly have been.

"So now I shall stop calling you Miss Manwaring."

"Please do."

"It's much too formal, considering I'm old enough to be your mother."

"Oh, no!" Sally protested involuntarily. "That isn't possible."

"I'll not see fifty-five again," Mrs. Gosnold announced. "But that's a
boudoir secret."

"I'll never--"

"And a secret of Polichinelle besides," the other laughed; "everybody
I know or care a snap for knows it. At the same time, no woman cares
to have her age discussed, even if it is public property and she quite
old enough to be beyond such vanity. No matter; I'm going to call you
Sara, if you've no objection."

"Why not Sally?" the girl suggested tentatively. "That's my name--I
mean, what I'm accustomed to."

"Thank you; I like it even better," Mrs. Gosnold affirmed. "I'm
conservative enough to favour old-time names. My own, for instance,
Abigail, pleases me immensely, though I seldom meet a young woman
these days who can hear it without looking either incredulous or
as though she doubted the sanity of my sponsors in baptism."

She stayed the obvious reply with an indulgent toss of a hand still
fair.

"Now to work. I've mapped out a busy morning for you. To begin with,
here are a dozen or so notes to deliver. You may take the
dog-cart--no, to save time, one of the motors. We must give these good
people as much time as possible, considering it's a spur-of-the-moment
affair. That is why, you understand, there are so few
invitations--because I'd no time to write and post a number. But each
of these is a bid to some friend with a houseful of people to come and
bring all her guests.

"Oh!" she laughed, catching the look of puzzlement on the girl's face,
"I haven't told you what it is. Well, my dear, it's an old woman's
whim. Every so often I break loose this way and keep my memory green
as one who, in her day, never entertained but in some unique fashion.
I was once famous for that sort of thing, but of late years I haven't
exerted myself except when bored to extinction by the deadly
commonplace amusements most people offer us.

"For some time I've had this in mind, and everything prepared; you
may, if you like, call it a spontaneous masquerade by moonlight. Half
the fun of such affairs comes of the last-moment, makeshift
costumes; if you give people m