"That looked like young Cavendish. If it was, and you get an opportunity, don't forget about asking him to dine with us," said Hector Brunton.

Aliette did not answer; but her gloved hands, as she alighted from her husband's car, trembled ever so slightly. She had seen him. He had seen her. And the wound, the wound in her heart, was not cured. She could feel it throbbing, throbbing with sheer joy. "I'm glad I wore this dress," she thought.

Her chinchilla cloak, ermine at neck and wrists, covered a gown of soft grays and softer mauves, silver-girdled. Pearls gleamed at her lustrous throat, in the tiny ears under her vivid hair. Crossing the black-and-white tessellated hall to the ambassadorial cloak-room, she looked a very picture of dignified composure.

But the composure was mainly superficial. Her heart throbbed and throbbed. She forgot Hector, remembered only Ronnie. This stately old lady, just being divested of her mandarin opera-cloak, must be his mother. She resembled him, about the chin, about the eyes.

"What a charming woman!" thought Julia Cavendish. "I wonder if she's Hector Brunton's wife. I wish I could find a wife like that for Ronnie."

"I'm afraid we're the last," smiled the elder woman, eying the formidable collection of furs.

"I'm afraid so too," smiled back the younger. She took off her own cloak; gave one swift glance at the mirror, and was ready.

"Practical, too. Makes no fuss about herself," thought Julia Cavendish, as they reËntered the hall together.

Aliette could not think. The meeting, unanticipated, had taken her off her guard. Delight, apprehension, sheer eagerness, and sheer diffidence made her utterly the girl. It seemed as though, at the instant, something tremendous must occur.

But nothing tremendous occurred! Or if it did, their social sense saw them through it. Ronnie was talking to Hector in the hall. He shook hands with Aliette. He introduced her to his mother. He introduced Hector to his mother. The four of them went up the wide stairs together. Aliette heard them announced, "Mr. and Mrs. Hector Brunton. Mrs. Julia Cavendish. Mr. Ronald Cavendish."

How silly she had been about him. How calm he was! How calm they both were! Naturally! He hardly knew her. They hardly knew one another.

Hector Brunton's wife realized suddenly that her left glove had split in the clenched palm, that she had forgotten to take off her gloves before entering the drawing-room.

"My dear child, how are you? En beautÉ, as always. A credit to the family." She found herself, among a mob of people, shaking hands with Simeon.