Joan, already exhilarated by a foretaste of independence, and enjoying to the full what Turgenev calls "that carelessness, that deuce-take-it air which comes out so naturally in foreign travel," changed at Broad Street for a local train that stops at all the smart little flower-bedecked stations which make the environs of Philadelphia so charming to the eye. Neat turnouts were waiting at most of them, dog-carts with dapper grooms at the horses' heads, big machines driven by bare-headed young people in sports clothes; here and there a quietly elegant brougham or limousine with men in livery on the box.

As her train passed, she caught glimpses of mellow, red-brick houses that gave the effect of age without decadence; tree-lined avenues, hot-houses, gardens, velvet lawns. It was country that lacked the broad, picturesque loveliness of Kentucky landscape, but it had a definite charm of its own—a well-ordered, leisurely, finished permanence which reminded one that not only American history but American society had its stronghold here, changing less than elsewhere in our adolescent land. There was no suggestion, as in the South, of having seen better days; no raw, temporary promise of the future as in the Middle West. Joan remembered having heard that many people who danced in the Philadelphia Assembly of to-day bore the same names as those who danced in it when Philadelphia was the country's capital, and Mr. Washington its first President. She wondered hopefully whether Desmond was one of those names....

People got in and out of the train, carrying golf-bags and tennis-rackets. Joan smoothed the skirt of the "little model" Effie May had provided for traveling purposes; a fawncolored crÊpe with lacy cuffs and collar, which had at first given her qualms of uneasiness. There was a long cloth coat to match, and a hat of the costliest simplicity; and she was not used to traveling dressed as for a party. Now, however, she was grateful for her step-mother's insistence, with a gratitude which increased in proportion to the distance between them.

"Always dress up on a train," was Effie May's sage counsel, "so that people will notice you're a lady, and treat you according."

People had undoubtedly noticed, and she had been treated "according"; and now toward her journey's end it was particularly agreeable to feel that among these fellow-travelers on pleasure bent she need have no qualms as to her personal appearance, at least. Underneath she might know herself to be plain, poor little Joan Darcy, an adventuress in search of a husband; but on the surface she was as affluent a young lady as ever rang for the porter to lower a shade that was within two feet of her hand.

It may be premature to state that our heroine had already adjusted her future to her present pleasing environment; but the fact remains that when the train stopped at the station for which her subconscious mind had fortunately been listening, Joan was just in the act of moving Ellen Neal and her mother's furniture into a large Quaker house with a gambrel roof....

Betty was waiting for her in a dog-cart; brown as a berry, with sleeves rolled up, and a bare, tousled head, quite a different young person already from the shy little girl who had been her slave at the Convent.

"Hurry up, old Joie!" she called, wrestling with the cob, who rose on his hind legs to snort at the snorting engine, while a diminutive groom tried with frantic leapings to reach his head. "The Rabbit hates to stand! Run and get Miss Darcy's things, Jenks" (this to the groom) "and be quick about it, will you? You see," she explained as Joan climbed perilously aboard and was duly kissed, "when I left, Mother was two up and four to play, and it's the finals, and she's already got a leg on the cup. Great, isn't it? We'll have to gallop all the way to get there before it's over!"

"What are you talking about?" asked mystified Joan. "A leg on the cup—!" Hitherto golf had not entered into her vocabulary; though she had gazed at it from afar, wondering at the strange ways men choose to waste their golden hours.

"Why, the tournament, of course! Didn't I write you? We're deep in it. Where are your clubs, by the way?" She glanced at Joan's bag and parasol-case. "Oh, dear! Have you left them on the train?"

"Clubs?—You mean golf-sticks?" asked Joan, with misgivings. "Why, I haven't any. I don't play golf."

"Don't play golf?" cried Betty in genuine dismay. "What ever will you do with yourself here? And how on earth do you amuse yourself in Kentucky? Just ride?"

"Why, yes," said Joan feebly, "we—we ride."

Once, indeed, during a period of comparative affluence, the Major had possessed for a while a horse of the family type; and under his instruction Joan had occasionally mounted the complaisant beast and propelled it fearfully about back streets, feeling that something was due her Kentucky traditions. But suppose she were expected to mount, for instance, some such fire-eater as the Rabbit!

"I don't believe I've brought my riding-clothes," she murmured hastily.

"Goose! Why not? But I dare say Mother can fit you out with trousers," said Betty, glancing casually at her friend's slim length of limb. "Mine'd be too short. With trousers and a sweater you'll be all right."

Joan's eyes opened wide, but her mouth remained closed. After all, she was out for experience. If it included meeting a violent death while clad in trousers and a sweater, so be it.

"Uncle Neddy'll find you a decent horse somewhere," Betty was running on. "He's awfully keen about your coming, Jo. I'm afraid you're going to have him on your hands a lot, especially if you don't play golf."

Joan brightened. "Why? Doesn't he?"

"Lord, no! Too much of a duffer. Likes to do lazy things, like riding, and fooling around in a canoe, admiring nature. With widows and such!" She made a face.

"Widows?" Joan pricked an ear.

"Grass or sod. It's all one to our Neddy," murmured his flippant niece. "Girls are not grown up enough for him, of course—Except you. He always did take notice when you were around. I remember. But then you were always more grown up than the rest of us, somehow." She gave her friend a glance full of the old shy admiration. "Do you know, you've gotten to be awfully pretty too. Perhaps it's all those grand clothes!"

"Perhaps it is," smiled Joan, flushing.

At school she had been the poor girl of her group, the one who had most often to borrow and least often to lend the simple fineries current among them for special occasions. Now under her friend's appraising eyes she was a little uncomfortable, wondering whether the dress she had on was perhaps a little too "grand" by comparison with Betty's plain linen. Linens she owned herself, but braided, embroidered, lace-inserted out of all recognition as such. It was a physical impossibility for Effie May to select anything plain. Under her manipulation, the merest shirt-waist became what the salesladies refer to majestically as a "bloose." Sartorially Joan was entirely in her step-mother's hands.

"But Southern girls always do dress up a lot, don't they?" said Betty, innocently continuing her line of thought. "You ought to have seen the one the Ritters had visiting them last month! All ruffles, and parasols, and chiffon veils. Couldn't swim or go for a ride or do anything on account of her complexion. All she did was to dance and sit out in corners with people. It was disgusting!"

"And didn't your uncle take notice even of her?" murmured Joan.

"Oh, of course. She was as good as a widow, you see—she'd had so many affairs. The men simply flocked. Whenever she came on to the tennis-court she'd break up the game, and we could hardly find enough men to make up a foursome, they were all so busy hanging around. It was too queer! I never could see the attraction in rolling your eyes, and flashing your dimples, and dropping your r's like a colored servant, could you?—Not," she added hastily, "that all Southern girls are that sort, Joie dear! You, for instance!"

"I should hope not," murmured Joan; who had decided on the instant to be exactly that sort herself, so far as in her lay. It suited the elaborateness of her wardrobe; it saved her from golf and tennis and other amusements which bade fair to be terrifying in this sporting community—particularly the embarrassments of horseback riding. Joan was too much of an egotist to enter willingly into competitions where she had no chance to excel.

No; the languid beauty was her rÔle for the next few weeks; and she flattered herself that after several months of Louisville she ought to be able to drop her r's and roll her eyes and flash her dimples with the best, particularly if the audience were not too experienced in Southernism. In school theatricals she had always distinguished herself. Moreover, she had the advantage of a lifelong model to work from; for Richard Darcy was one of those sons of Dixie whose characteristics become more markedly Dixotic the farther they travel from base.

Let the Ritters' guest look to her laurels!

By way of preparation Joan got out her lip-stick and her powder-puff and did what she could to improve on nature, Betty watching her the while in amused respect.

"I'm glad I don't have to mess my face up with things like that," she commented frankly. "But I suppose when one goes in for a real complexion it's got to be taken care of."

Joan murmured something explanatory about the ravages of a Southern sun; and so entered upon her brief and eventful career as a Kentucky beauty.