“Oh, that’s Mrs. Essington, Kitty Wykoff’s daughter. Kitty married her to some Englishman—a wretch! She’s lived in London for years. She knows Mr. Longacre. I’m so _glad_ she’s come! I don’t know what we should have done with him if she hadn’t! He’s queer as ‘Dick’s hatband’!” “_Queer?_” Julia threw the word out like a missile. “Oh, I don’t know,” Mrs. Budd said vaguely. “He’s written an opera, and when he _does_ talk one can’t always make sure of what he means. And look at his neckties!” Mrs. Budd’s eloquent gesture condemned them out of hand. “There’s nothing the matter with his neckties,” said her daughter, coldly. “I hear some one going down, mama.” “Well, I don’t know _what_ it is,” her mother threw over her shoulder; “but if they were _quite_ right, one wouldn’t notice them.” After the door had closed on Mrs. Budd’s glittering wake, the girl stood motionless, her eyes on her mirror. But her conscious sight was turned inward. She was struggling to recall a clear image of the neckties, which she was certain _she_ had never noticed. What was it about them her mother so earnestly deplored? But her mental vision persisted in rising above the garment in question to the eyes that could look so steadily without staring; and through those eyes she began to see her own. Shining hazel shot with hot yellow replaced the blue—two flowering cheeks, and a crimson line of lips. Presently these smiled at her. She drew back a step, turned half away from the glass, looked again, wriggled her white shoulders luxuriously in her lace bodice, held the hand-mirror high, and, brows drawn to one black line, earnestly contemplated her own profile. Then she smiled, threw the glass on the dressing-table, and turned to the door. She had a pleasant excitement in the thought of meeting Longacre. Those cool, blue eyes she had vaguely felt to be a bit critical through their admiration. They roused in her the child’s impulse to “show off,” to surprise them into unreserved praise. Other men were satisfied to find her beautiful, but he seemed to require more. Well, he should see, she thought, with a shake of her darkly burnished head. He loomed so large to her mental vision that when she actually saw him he seemed small and quiet, less than she had expected—yet (the eyes again) somehow more. He was opposite her at dinner. She caught herself comparing his tie with Thair’s, relieved to find them identical, to see, as Longacre’s head turned toward the woman on his right, that the blond hair, longish over the forehead, was clipped close behind the ears. Correct as one could wish; and yet, her mother had said he was queer. Well, he was—different, odd. She felt ashamed of her inventory, but—well, a man could not afford to be odd. She reproached herself. He would not condemn her for—wearing lawn over satin. But again, he would—if she sang a false note. Well, he should see!