“Just like a French cadet!” said William Archer. He had finished luncheon, and was standing in the doorway looking back. She made a little mouth at him, and when he had gone she came and stood by her father’s chair. He looked up. “Where are you off to?” he asked. “There’s the matinee party first; and then Helen’s tea—it’s her day—and then Harold is going to take me for a spin, if we get out in time.... Good-by, dear things! I’ll see you at dinner.” She bent and kissed them, and all the elusive perfume and shining color and the little flitting ends of ribbon fluttered with her from the room. Richard More smiled across at his wife. “Enter Hamlet!” he said. “Yes—It’s all decided!” she added softly. He put down his cup. “When?” “Ages ago—in heaven, I suppose.” She smiled a little wistfully. He looked relieved. “Oh—that kind of deciding!” XIV They were alone at dinner. Annabel came in late and joined them, and there were only the three of them in the big room. It was very restful—with the shaded light from the candles; and there was a veiled happiness in the girl’s smile—a little wistful look that flitted through it when it rested on her mother’s face. Richard More watched in silence. “Did you have a good time?” he asked abruptly. “Fine!” She crumbled her bread absently. “What make of car is he running now?” “What make—Oh—!” She looked up. “I didn’t notice.” She was scanning her mother’s face—as if she had not quite seen her before. “I saw the prettiest thing to-day, mother—pretty for you!” She leaned forward, still gazing at her. “It would just suit you!” “Yes?” Eleanor’s eyes met the look behind the words. “What was it?” “A queer sort of garment—not a kimono exactly, and not a coat—just a garment.” She threw open her arms with a whimsical gesture. Her mother’s look grew veiled. “Where was it?—where did you see it?” “At Helen’s tea. Mrs. Martin had it.... She helped pour and she had it on when she came in. She threw it off in the hall—a kind of regal thing, you know!” She made another gesture and laughed. “And I thought in a flash of you!” Richard More was looking at his wife—her glance met his. “I am too old to wear a thing like that,” she said tranquilly. The girl shook her head. “It wasn’t old, and it wasn’t young.... It was just like you!” She said it softly, half to herself under her breath, and she nodded to her father with a little shy pleasure in the words. “I kept thinking all the time we were driving—how beautiful you would look in it.” “What color was it?” asked Richard More. “A sort of blue shade—very deep and rich—and gold things running all over it—a perfectly stunning thing!” “So you think your mother would look well in something like that?” he said gravely. His face was turned to his wife.