Mrs. Sequin sighed as he slammed the front door. There was no use denying the fact that men were trying, even the best of them. Hadn't Cousin John Queerington, that paragon of perfection, toppled on his pedestal at the smile of an unsophisticated little country girl? And there was Basil, recognized as a veritable wizard of finance, waiting until the new house was almost completed, then getting panicky about the cost. And now Donald, whom she thought safely anchored on the other side of the world, threatening to come home at the most inopportune time and create no end of trouble! “Excuse me, madam,” said the butler, “but she says she ain't going to wait another minute.” “Jenkins!” Mrs. Sequin raised her brows disapprovingly. “Send that odious woman up to Miss Margery's room; I will see her there.” The room above the dining-room was one of those pink-and-white jumbles that convention prescribes for debutantes. Garlands of pink roses festooned the paper, tied at intervals by enormous pink bows. Pink bows and ruffles smothered the dresser and sewing table, and pink and white cushions filled the window seat. Cotillion favors, old dance cards, theater programs, were pinned to the heavy pink and white curtains that shut out the sunlight. Among the lace pillows of the brass bed lay a languid, pale-faced girl, who stared up at the rose-entwined ceiling, as a prisoner might stare at her bars. “Close the door, Myrtella,” Mrs. Sequin said as they entered. “I am mortally afraid of drafts. Good morning, Margery. Where is your blue hat? I told Miss Lady to send up for it, because I am going to take her to the Bartrums' this afternoon and I simply could not have her appear in that ridiculous little hat she wears all the time.” The girl in the bed turned a fretful face toward her mother: “Why, Miss Lady promised to spend the afternoon with me. I've been looking forward to it for days.” “Yes, I know, dear, but I told her you weren't quite so well, and that she could come to-morrow. You see, she really can't afford to miss the Bartrums' tea; it's the first entertainment this fall and everybody will be there. I know you think Mrs. Bartrum a little gay, but you can't deny she runs that younger set.” Margery Sequin clasped her thin white hands tensely, and resumed her study of the vine-covered ceiling. “Here's the hat,” said Mrs. Sequin, handing a large hat box to Myrtella, then noting her offended expression she added by way of propitiation: “I don't know how they would get along without you at the Doctor's. I hear that the new mistress doesn't know a saucepan from a skillet.” “She ain't no fool,” returned Myrtella instantly on the defensive. “Of course not, just young and careless. I dare say she doesn't even order the groceries, does she?” “No, mam.” “Nor plan for the meals?” “No, mam.”