They were alone at dinner. Annabel came in late and joined them, and there were only the three of them in the big room. It was very restful—with the shaded light from the candles; and there was a veiled happiness in the girl’s smile—a little wistful look that flitted through it when it rested on her mother’s face.

Richard More watched in silence.

“Did you have a good time?” he asked abruptly.

“Fine!” She crumbled her bread absently.

“What make of car is he running now?”

“What make—Oh—!” She looked up. “I didn’t notice.”

She was scanning her mother’s face—as if she had not quite seen her before.

“I saw the prettiest thing to-day, mother—pretty for you!” She leaned forward, still gazing at her. “It would just suit you!”

“Yes?” Eleanor’s eyes met the look behind the words. “What was it?”

“A queer sort of garment—not a kimono exactly, and not a coat—just a garment.” She threw open her arms with a whimsical gesture.

Her mother’s look grew veiled. “Where was it?—where did you see it?”

“At Helen’s tea. Mrs. Martin had it.... She helped pour and she had it on when she came in. She threw it off in the hall—a kind of regal thing, you know!” She made another gesture and laughed. “And I thought in a flash of you!”

Richard More was looking at his wife—her glance met his.

“I am too old to wear a thing like that,” she said tranquilly.

The girl shook her head. “It wasn’t old, and it wasn’t young.... It was just like you!” She said it softly, half to herself under her breath, and she nodded to her father with a little shy pleasure in the words. “I kept thinking all the time we were driving—how beautiful you would look in it.”

“What color was it?” asked Richard More.

“A sort of blue shade—very deep and rich—and gold things running all over it—a perfectly stunning thing!”

“So you think your mother would look well in something like that?” he said gravely.

His face was turned to his wife.

“I should like to see her in it,” said the girl wistfully. “I never thought before how beautiful mother is! She’s always been—just mother!... I think she’s growing pretty,” she added reflectively. She was gazing at her with puzzled eyes.

“Go on—tell about the coat!” said Eleanor.

“Why—that’s all! I only saw it as she threw it off—and when we came out, it lay there across a chair and Harold said, ’What a stunning thing!’ and I said, ’Yes—for mother!’.rdquo; She laughed and Eleanor smiled faintly.

“And then what did he say?”

The girl hesitated a minute.

“You are growing pretty, you know!” she replied irrelevantly. “And you’re almost the only woman I know that has wrinkles—nice ones!”

“Silly child!” said Eleanor. But her face flushed a little.

Annabel nodded. “I’ve been puzzling about it—about faces—lots of those suffrage women—I didn’t know what it was—I couldn’t make out! But that’s it—they haven’t any wrinkles!” She said it triumphantly.

“They do keep young,” said Richard More thoughtfully.

She turned on him almost fiercely. “It isn’t young! It’s—massage! I’ve got so I just seem to hate that look—all puffed out and smooth and softish like putty. It’s a kind of chromo-face,” she said indignantly—“a just-as-good face, you know!”

Her father laughed out.

She nodded savagely. “That’s the way I feel, and I didn’t know—till to-day.” Her voice grew gentle.

“When I get old I’m going to have wrinkles—like mother!”

“There’s one on your nose, now—where you’re turning it up,” said Richard.

“I don’t care.... Now mother’s wrinkles”—she leaned forward and touched one lightly with her finger—“mother’s wrinkles are—beautiful!”

“You flatter me!” said Eleanor, with a little serene smile mocking the light in her face.

“There—! That’s it! Do you see?” She motioned to her father. “That little line that makes fun of you!—I’m going to have one just like that!” She leaned back and looked at the wrinkle with artistic approval.

Suddenly she jumped up and came and put her arms around her mother’s neck.

“Do you think I would let any one massage that wrinkle off your face—you dear old thing, you!” She bent and kissed the wrinkle.

And Eleanor put up a hand to the smooth cheek, close against her own—with the little flush coming and going in it.

“What did Harold say?” she asked.

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