sell-contained.  Was it just that Mary had forgotten how straight she sat and how precisely she moved about?  Had she always had that discreet significant air, as if there were something she could talk about but didn’t mean to—­not on any account?  Or was there something going on here at home that awaited—­breathlessly awaited—­discovery?  Whatever it was, when Paula turned upon her it went, laughably;—­only it would have been a pretty shaky sort of laugh.

It was after lunch that Paula electrified them by suggesting that they all go together to a matinee.  That’s an illustration of the power she had.  To each of the three, to Lucile and to Mary as well as to the now infatuated Rush, she could make a commonplace scheme like that seem an irresistibly enticing adventure.  Lucile recovered her balance first, but it was not until Nat had fetched the morning paper and they had discussed their choice of entertainments for two or three minutes that she said of course she couldn’t go.  She didn’t know what she’d been thinking of.  The number of things imperatively to be done or seen to in preparation for the party to-night would keep her busy all the afternoon.

Then Mary followed suit.  If this was really going to be a party—­she hadn’t quite got this idea before—­she’d have to spend the afternoon unpacking and putting her frocks in order or she wouldn’t have anything to wear.

“Well,” Paula said comfortably, “until they turn me on like a Victrola at nine o’clock or so, I’ve nothing to do with the party except not think about it.”  She made this observation at large, then turned on Rush.  “You’ll come with me, won’t you, and keep me from getting frightened until tea-time?”

Rush would go—­rather!—­but he laughed at the word “frightened.”

“I’m not joking,” she said, and reaching out she covered his hand, which rested on the cloth, with one of hers.

He flushed instantly at that; then said to the others with slightly elaborated surprise, “It is, cold, for a fact.”

“So is the other one,” said Paula.  “For that matter, so are my feet.  And getting colder every minute.  Come along or we’ll be late.”

Mary branded this as a bit of rather crude coquetry.  It wasn’t conceivable that a professional opera singer of Paula’s experience could look forward with any sort of emotion to the mere singing of a few songs to a group of familiar friends.  It occurred to her, too, that Paula had calculated on her refusal to go to the matinee as definitely as on Aunt Lucile’s and for a moment she indulged the idea of changing her mind and going along with them just to frustrate this design.  Only, of course, it wouldn’t work that way.  She couldn’t keep Rush from being taken away from her by playing the spoil-sport.  She couldn’t keep him anyhow she supposed.  She made a hasty, rather forlorn retreat to her own room as soon as the departing pair were safely out of the house.