“It wasn’t very exciting—just the same old crowd that you always see there, week after week. I thought I might as well get to bed a little early.” “That’ll please your father,” Mrs. Cromwell assured her. “I noticed you danced several times with young Hobart Simms. You were dancing with him when I left, I think.” “Yes?” Anne said, inquiringly, but she did not look toward her mother. She stood facing her dressing-table, apparently preoccupied with it. “I shouldn’t?” “‘Shouldn’t?’” Mrs. Cromwell echoed, laughing indulgently. “He’s commonplace, perhaps, but he’s a nice boy, and everybody admires the plucky way he’s behaved about his father’s failure. I only thought——” she hesitated. “Yes?” “I only thought—well, he _is_ a little shorter than you——” “I see,” Anne said; and with that she turned eyes starry with emotion full upon her mother. The look was almost tragic, but her voice was gentle. “Did we seem—ridiculous?” “No, indeed! Not at all.” “I think we did,” Anne murmured and looked down at the dressing-table again. “Well—it doesn’t matter.” “Don’t be so fanciful,” Mrs. Cromwell said. “You couldn’t look ridiculous under any circumstances, Anne.” “I understand,” said Anne. “You don’t think I danced with Hobart Simms because I _wanted_ to, do you, Mother?” “No, it was because you’re kind,” Mrs. Cromwell returned, comfortingly; then continued, in a casual way, “It just happened you were with poor little Hobart during the short time I was looking on. I suppose you weren’t _too_ partial to him, dear. You danced with all the rest of the customary besiegers, didn’t you?” “Oh, I suppose so,” Anne said, wearily. In profile to her mother, she stood looking down upon the dressing-table, her hands moving among little silver boxes and trumperies of ivory and jade and crystal; but those white and shapely hands, adored by the mother, were doing nothing purposeful and were only pretending to be employed—a signal to mothers that daughters wish to be alone but do not know how to put the wish into tactful words. Mrs. Cromwell understood; but she did not go. “I’m glad you danced with all of ’em,” she said. “You did dance with them all, did you, Anne?” “I guess so.” “I’m glad,” the mother said again, and then, as in a musing afterthought, she added, “I only looked on for a little while. I suppose Harrison was there?” The daughter’s hands instantly stopped moving among the pretty trifles on the dressing-table; she was still from head to foot; but she spoke in a careless enough tone. “Harrison Crisp? Yes. He was there.” And then, as if she must be scrupulously honest about this impression, she added, “At least, I _think_ he was.” “Oh!” Mrs. Cromwell exclaimed, enlightened. “Anne, didn’t you dance with him at _all_?” “With Harrison?” the girl asked, indifferently. “No; I don’t believe I did, now I come to think of it.” “Didn’t he ask you at all?”