"My dear," rejoined Mrs. Maynard, changing the topic. "I'm sorry to tell you Daren Lane has lost his standing in Middleville." The hum and the honk of a motor-car sounded in the street. "Poor Daren! What's he done?... Any old day he'll care!" Mrs. Maynard was looking out of the window. "Here comes a crowd of girls.... Helen Wrapp has a new suit. Well, I'll go down. And after they leave I want a serious talk with you." "Not if I see you first!" muttered Margaret, under her breath, as her mother walked out. Presently, following gay talk and laughter down stairs, a bevy of Margaret's friends entered her boudoir. "Hello, old socks!" was Helen's greeting. "You look punk." "Marg, where's the doll? Your mother tipped us off," was Elinor's greeting. "Where's the eats?" was Flossie Dickerson's greeting. She was a bright-eyed girl, with freckles on her smiling face, and the expression of a daring, vivacious and happy spirit--and acknowledged to be the best dancer and most popular girl in Middleville. Her dress, while not to be compared with her friends' costumes in costliness, yet was extreme in the prevailing style. "Glad to see you, old dear," was dark-eyed, dark-haired Dorothy Dalrymple's greeting. Her rich color bore no hint of the artificial. She sank down on her knees beside Margaret. The other girls draped themselves comfortably round the room; and Flossie with a 'Yum Yum' began to dig into a box of candy on Margaret's couch. They all talked at once. "Hear the latest, Marg?" "Look at Helen's spiffy suit!" "Oh, money, money, what it will buy!" "Money'll never buy _me_, I'll say." "Marg, who's been fermentin' round lately? Girls, get wise to the flowers." "Hot dog! See Marg blush! That comes from being so pale. What are rouge and lip-stick and powder for but to hide truth from our masculine pursuers?" "Floss, you haven't blushed for a million years." It was Dorothy Dalrymple who silenced the idle badinage. "Marg, you rummaging in the past?" she cried. "Yes, and I love it," replied Margaret. "I haven't looked over this stuff for years. Just to remember the things I did!... Here, Dal, is a picture you once drew of our old teacher, Miss Hill." Dorothy, whom the girls nicknamed "Dal," gazed at the drawing with amaze and regret. "She was a terror," continued Margaret. "But Dal, you never had any reason to draw such a horrible picture of her. You were her pet." "I wasn't," declared Dorothy. "Maybe you never knew Miss Hill adored you, Dal," interposed Elinor. "She was always holding you up as a paragon. Not in your lessons--for you were a bonehead--but for deportment you were the class!" "Dal, you were too good for this earth _then_, let alone these days," said Margaret.