Standing on one foot she waited developments, and concealed her eagerness by snapping her underlip against her teeth with one busy forefinger.

Her spirits fell when Thomas appeared with the supper-tray.  And she ate with no appetite—­for all that she was eating alone—­alone, that is, except for Thomas, who preserved a complete and stony silence.  Miss Royle had not returned.  Jane had disappeared toward her room, grumbling about never having a single evening to call her own.

But at seven cheer returned with the realization that Jane was not getting ready the white-and-gold bed.  Still in a very bad humor, and touched up smartly by a fresh cap and a dainty apron, the nurse put Gwendolyn into a rosebud-bordered mull frock and tied a white-satin bow atop her yellow hair.

“Where am I going, Jane?” asked Gwendolyn. (She felt certain that this was one of the nights when she was invited downstairs:  She hoped—­with a throb in her throat that was like the beat of a heart—­that the supper just past was only afternoon tea, and that there was waiting for her at the grown-up table—­in view of her newly acquired year and dignity—­an empty chair.)

“You’ll see soon enough,” answered Jane, shortly.

Next, a new thought!  Her father and mother had not seen her for two whole days—­not since she was six.  “Wonder if I show I’m not taller,” she mused under her breath.

At precisely fifteen minutes to eight Jane took her by the hand.  And she went down and down in the bronze cage, past the floor where were the guest chambers, past the library floor, which was where her mother and father lived, to the second floor of the great house.  Here was the music-room, spacious and splendid, and the dining-room.  The doors of this latter room were double.  Before them the two halted.

Not only the pause at this entrance betrayed whereto they were bound, but also Jane’s manner.  For the nurse was holding herself erect and proper—­shoulders back, chin in, heels together.  Gwendolyn had often noted that upon both Jane and Thomas her parents had a curious stiffening effect.

The thought of that empty chair now forced itself uppermost.  The gray eyes darkened with sudden anxiety.

“Now, Gwendolyn” whispered Jane, leaning down, “put your best foot forward.”  Her face had lost some of its accustomed color.

“But, Jane,” whispered Gwendolyn back, “which is my best foot?”

Jane gave the small hand she was holding an impatient shake.  “Hush your rubbishy questions,” she commanded “We’re goin’ in!” She tapped one of the doors gently.

Gwendolyn glanced down at her daintily slippered feet.  With so little time for reflecting, she could not decide which one she should put forward.  Both looked equally well.

The next moment the doors swung open, and Potter, white-haired, grave and bent, stepped aside for them to pass.  They crossed the threshold.