“In the mean time how much nearer have I got to get to inviting myself to dinner this evening?” said Rudolph, with a subdued voice and a meek manner. “Ah, well, for Mabin’s sake then, I spare you the humiliation and invite you myself. You shall stay to amuse her, since I am afraid she would find me a very dreary companion.” “Indeed I shouldn’t,” cried Mabin, blushing deeply, and speaking with as much energy as if the presence of Rudolph were an injury. “I should like nothing better than an evening alone with you.” Rudolph drew a deep sigh, and even Mrs. Dale could not suppress a smile at the girl’s unconscious _gaucherie_. When Mabin realized what a stupid thing she had said, she was of course too much ashamed of herself to laugh at her clumsy words, and fell, instead, into a stiff silence which the others found it impossible to make her break except by demure monosyllabic answers. When they went into the dining-room, therefore, the evening did not promise to be a lively one. Mrs. Dale seemed to find it impossible to shake off the effects of the visit of her persecutor. Rudolph was oppressed by fears for both the ladies, and by doubts whether his presence there was not an indiscretion which would make matters worse for both of them. While Mabin, perplexed and troubled by a score of unaccustomed sensations, was the most silent, the most distressed of all. Daylight was still streaming in from the West as they took their seats at the table in the dingily furnished room. Mrs. Dale gave a little shudder as she glanced from the “furnished house” knives to the commonplace dinner service. “Ah!” she said, “it is not like this that I used to entertain my friends. My little dinners had quite a reputation--once!” Then, as if she felt that these regrets were worse than vain, she turned the subject abruptly, while a spasm of pain for the moment convulsed her face. Rudolph on his side was sorry she had mentioned the “little dinners.” They suggested a past life in which there had been something more than frivolity; something with which he would have dissociated Mrs. Dale if he could. But innocent Mabin, wishing to say something, brought the conversation back to the point it had left. “But why can’t you have pretty dinners now, if you like to?” Mrs. Dale’s fair face grew whiter as she answered gently: “I will tell you--presently--some day--why I don’t have anything pretty or nice about me now.” And Mabin, feeling that she had touched a painful chord, became more silent than ever.