“Yes, I did,” answered Margaret simply. “I told him I had no taste at all, but that you were responsible for everything.” “That was the least you could do,” answered Miss Boyd. But her heart went out to Margaret, for the trivial incident showed once more how frank the girl was. She knew quite well that few of her friends, though many took advantage of her matchless taste, would have made such an admission to the lover who congratulated them on the success of their costume. There was a knock at the door, and Arthur came in. “This is the fairy prince,” said Margaret, bringing him to her friend. “I’m glad to see you in order to thank you for all you’ve done for Margaret,” he smiled, taking the proffered hand. Susie remarked that he looked upon her with friendliness, but with a certain vacancy, as though too much engrossed in his beloved really to notice anyone else; and she wondered how to make conversation with a man who was so manifestly absorbed. While Margaret busied herself with the preparations for tea, his eyes followed her movements with a doglike, touching devotion. They travelled from her smiling mouth to her deft hands. It seemed that he had never seen anything so ravishing as the way in which she bent over the kettle. Margaret felt that he was looking at her, and turned round. Their eyes met, and they stood for an appreciable time gazing at one another silently. “Don’t be a pair of perfect idiots,” cried Susie gaily. “I’m dying for my tea.” The lovers laughed and reddened. It struck Arthur that he should say something polite. “I hope you’ll show me your sketches afterwards, Miss Boyd. Margaret says they’re awfully good.” “You really needn’t think it in the least necessary to show any interest in me,” she replied bluntly. “She draws the most delightful caricatures,” said Margaret. “I’ll bring you a horror of yourself, which she’ll do the moment you leave us.” “Don’t be so spiteful, Margaret.”