Gita felt inclined to dance as she swaggered about the dilapidated old garden, her hands in her pockets. She felt uncommonly buoyant. Whether she liked Polly Pleyden or not she hardly knew, but the creature was certainly stimulating. And the future looked less gray. She would have felt no desire to go to the wild parties she had read about during those long days on the desert, even were her grandmother well and amenable, but if the other girls were as amusing as Polly she would have a lot of fun with them. California had helped her, but it was time for another superstructure. What would it be like? For a moment her feet in their heavy boy’s shoes danced on the path. Then she saw Topper approaching and tried to look indifferent and dignified. “Mrs. Carteret would like to see you, miss,” said the old butler, who never looked otherwise than dignified. She ran into the house and up the stair and for the first time showed a smiling face at the door of the sick-room. The old lady was sitting up in bed, an antiquated jewel-casket open beside her. She gave her grandchild a sharp glance. “So! What you needed was young folks,” she commented dryly. “Polly Pleyden is a frivolous, fast, pert, painted minx, but I suppose she’s better than nothing. If she’d been properly brought up she’d have called a day or two after your arrival. But never mind Polly. Come here. I’ve something to show you.” Gita, more interested in the contents of the casket than in her grandmother’s opinion of Polly Pleyden, came to the side of the bed and bent over a tray of necklaces, bracelets, rings, and brooches. The settings were old-fashioned, but the stones: diamonds, rubies, emeralds, were of fair size and perfect clarity. For the moment she felt acutely feminine. Her eyes sparkled and she touched them lingeringly with her finger-tips. She had read stories demonstrating the fascination of jewels, but had never imagined that her own response would be keen and ardent. In jewelers’ windows she had not given them more than a casual glance. But to be as close to them as this! To touch them, to bend low over their fire. . . . For a moment she was almost angry. “Lift out that tray,” said Mrs. Carteret. The next held a rope of pearls, large, evenly matched, very white, and with a sheen that gave Gita a curious thrill. There was a sense of life, of mystery . . . strangely remote and desirable. “I always wore them at night until lately to keep them from dying. They are to be yours, of course. Put them on.” Gita lifted the pearls over her head reverently, and ran to a mirror. “Are they really for me?” she gasped. “How can I thank you, grandmother! I never knew that pearls were beautiful before. But these! Mine!” “Oh! You’re not a boy after all! Good.” Then as Gita frowned she added hastily, “Come back and lift out this tray.”