It was undoubtedly true that the simple black gown, without ornament and with very little to break its sweeping line, was as becoming to Katharine’s strong beauty as it was appropriate to her frame of mind. It made her look older than she was, perhaps, but being so young, the loss was almost gain. It gave her dignity a background and a reason, as it were. Her face was pale still, but not noticeably so, and her eyes were quiet if not soft. Only a person who knew her very well would have observed the slight but steady contraction of the broad eyebrows, which was unusual. As a rule, if it came at all, it disappeared almost instantly again. She remembered afterwards--as one remembers the absurd details of one’s own thoughts--that when she had looked into the mirror for the last time, she had been glad that her front hair did not curl, and that she had never yielded to the temptation to make it curl, as most girls did. She had been pleased by the simplicity of the two thick, black waves which lay across the clear paleness of her forehead, like dark velvet on cream-white silk. She forgot the thought instantly, but, later, she remembered how severe and straight it had looked, and the consciousness was of some value to her--as the least vain man, taken unexpectedly to meet and address a great assembly, may be momentarily glad if he chances to be wearing a particularly good coat. The gravest of us have some consciousness of our own appearance, and be our strength what it may, when it is appropriate to appear in the wedding garment, it is good for us to be wearing one. Katharine stopped at her mother’s door as she descended the stairs. Mrs. Lauderdale was dining at home, and the Lauderdales dined at eight o’clock, so that she was still in her room at ten minutes before the hour. Katharine knocked and entered. Her mother was standing before the mirror. The door which led to her father’s dressing-room, by a short passage between two wardrobes built into the house, was wide open. Katharine heard him moving some small objects on his dressing-table. “You’re late, child,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, not turning, for as Katharine entered, she could see her reflection in the mirror. “Are you going to take Jane with you? If not, I wish you’d tell her to come here, as you go down--I let you have her because I knew you’d be late.” “No,” answered Katharine, “I don’t want her--she’s only in the way. It’s the Van De Waters’, you know. Good night, mother.” “Good night, darling--enjoy yourself--you’ll be late, of course--they’ll dance, or something.” “Yes--but I shan’t stay. I’m tired. Good night again.” Katharine was going to the door, when her father appeared from his dressing-room, serenely correct, as usual, but wearing his black tie because no one was coming to dinner. “I want to speak to you, Katharine,” he said. She turned and stood still in the middle of the room, facing him. He had a letter in his hand.