Periodically, during the four months that the Barrs spent in wandering over Europe, Enid’s evasive reply to Sally’s urgent question thrust itself frighteningly through the new joys she was experiencing. Enid had shrugged and said: “Remind me when we’re making up the invitation list this fall, Sally.” She knew now that her mother had counted on her forgetting David, that Enid had told herself until she believed it, because she wanted to believe, that the transformed Sally, the Sally whom she had remade into the kind of girl who could take her place in society as the daughter of Enid and Courtney Barr, would be a little ashamed of her 16-year-old infatuation for a penniless young farmer. But Sally’s heart had not changed, no matter how radically Enid’s money, the finishing school and Europe had altered her, mentally and physically. One morning in November Sally knocked at the door of the small, pleasant room known to the Barr household as “Miss Rice’s office.” Linda Rice held the difficult, exacting but always exciting position of Enid Barr’s social secretary. Sally liked Linda, envied her her independence, her tactful, firm handling of her sometimes unreasonable employer. As she knocked now, fear of her mother fluttered in the heart that was so full of love and admiration for her. For she knew that Enid and Linda were making up the invitation list for the long-discussed coming-out party. “Come in,” Enid’s contralto voice called impatiently. “Oh, it’s you, darling. How cunning you look! Turn around so I can see how that new bob looks from the back. Oh, charming! Max is a robber, but he does know the art of cutting hair. Isn’t she precious, Linda?” Sally, dressed in a deceptively simple little frock of dark blue French crepe which half revealed her slender knees, whirled obediently. The heavy, silken masses of her black hair had long since been ruthlessly sacrificed to the shears, and now with the new Parisian cut, later to be the rage in America and known as the “wind-blown bob,” she looked like an impudent little gamin, amazingly pretty and pert. Her clear white skin contradicted the effect of the impish hair-cut, however, and persisted in making her look appealingly feminine. “To think she can eat anything she wants and still keep that figure!” Enid exclaimed with humorous envy. “I’d give my soul to be able to eat bread and candy again.” But she looked at her own tiny body, no bigger than an ethereal 12-year-old girl’s and smiled with satisfaction. “What did you want, darling? Linda and I are awfully busy.—Oh, by the way, you mustn’t forget Claire’s tea this afternoon. You’re going to Bobby Proctor’s luncheon at the Ritz, too, aren’t you? Like the social whirl, sweet?” “It still frightens me a little,” Sally confessed with a slight shiver. “Mother,” she began with a desperate attempt at casualness, “you’re sending David an invitation, aren’t you? You promised, you know—”