A momentous occasion, for in addition to other wonders, Christina was wearing her first hat! Evie had chosen and bought it. The woolen costume was one from Mrs. Colebrook's wash-tub. Ambrose had provided a gray squirrel coat. It had appeared at the last moment. But the hat was a joy. Christina had worn it in bed all the morning, sitting up with pillows behind her and a mirror in her hand. "Lend me that powder-puff of yours, Evie," she said recklessly, "My skin is perfect. I admit it. But I can't appear before the curious eyes of the world wearing my own complexion. It wouldn't be decent." "If you take my advice," suggested the wise Evie, "you'll put a dab of rouge on your cheeks. Nobody will know." "I am no painted woman," said Christina, "I am poor but I am respectable. Ambrose would think I had a fever and send for the osteopath. No, a little powder. My eyes are sufficiently languorous without eyeblack, I think. It must be powder or nothing." Ambrose did not accompany them, and Evie and Mrs. Colebrook were her attendants in the drive to Hampstead. Beryl saw them; she had arranged with Ambrose and the chauffeur that the car should go past the house and she watched from behind a curtained window. So that was Evie; it was the first time she had seen her--no, not the first time. She was the girl to whom Ronnie had been speaking that holiday morning when she had passed them in the park. She was very pretty and petite--the kind Ronnie liked. She lingered at the window long after they had passed, loath to face an unpleasant interview. She knew it would be unpleasant; her father had been so anxious to please her at lunch; his nervousness was symptomatic. He wanted to have a little talk with her that afternoon, he said; she guessed the subject set for discussion. Sitting before the drawing-room fire she was reading when he came in rubbing his hands, and wearing a cheerful smile which was wholly simulated. "Ah, there you are, Beryl. Now we can have a chat. I get very little time nowadays." He poked the fire vigorously and sat down. "Beryl--" he seemed at some loss for an opening, "I had a talk with Steppe the other day--we were talking about you." "Yes?" "Steppe is very fond of you--loves you," Dr. Merville cleared his throat. "Yes, he loves you, Beryl. A fine man, a little rough, perhaps, but a fine man and a very rich man." "Yes?" said Beryl again and he grew more agitated. "I don't know why you say 'Yes, yes,'" he said irritably, "a young girl doesn't as a rule hear such things without displaying some--well, some emotion. How do you feel about the matter?" "About marrying Mr. Steppe? I suppose you mean that? I can't marry him: I don't wish to." "I'm sure you would learn to love him, Beryl." She shook her head. "Impossible. I'm sorry, father, especially if you wished me to marry him. But it is impossible."