The young man who had chosen himself master of ceremonies at the hop the night before now proposed from the social background where he had hitherto kept himself, "_I_ will call you Daphne." "_You_ will call me Miss Desmond, if you please, Mr. Ellett." The owner of the name had been facing her visitors from the piano-stool with her back to the instrument. She now wheeled upon the stool, and struck some chords. "I wish you'd thought to bring your fiddle, Millicent. I should like to try this piece." The piece lay on the music-rest before her. "I will go and get it for her," said the ex-master of ceremonies. "Do," said Miss Desmond. "No, no," Gaites protested. "I brought Miss Axewright, and I have the first claim to bring her fiddle." "I'm afraid you couldn't either of you find it," Miss Axewright began. "We'll both try," said the ex-master of ceremonies. "Where do you think it is?" "Well, it's in the case on the piano." "That doesn't sound very intricate," said Gaites, and they all laughed. As soon as the two men were out of the house, the ex-master of ceremonies confided: "That name is a very tender spot with Miss Desmond. She's always hated it since I knew her, and I can't remember when I _didn't_ know her." "Yes, I could see that--too late," said Gaites. "But what I can't understand is, Miss Axewright seemed to hate it, too." Mr. Ellett appeared greatly edified. "Did _you_ notice that?" "I think I did." "Well, now I'll tell you just what I think. There aren't any two girls in the world that like each other better than those two. But that shows just how it is. Girls are terribly jealous, the best of them. There isn't a girl living that really likes to have another girl praised by a man, or anything about her, I don't care who the man is. It's a fact, whether you believe it or not, or whether you respect it. I don't respect it myself. It's narrow-minded. I don't deny it: they _are_ narrow-minded. All the same, we can't _help_ ourselves. At least, _I_ can't." Mr. Ellett broke into a laugh of exhaustive intelligence and clapped Gaites on the back. IX.