She rose at an early hour.  Her waking look was toward the pier glass.  Her one thought was to gauge her new height.  But the morning was the usual busy one.  When Jane finished bathing and dressing her, Miss Royle summoned her to breakfast.  An hour in the school-room followed—­an hour of quiet study, but under the watchful eye of the governess.  Next, Gwendolyn changed her dressing-gown for a riding-habit, and with Jane holding her by one small hand, and with Thomas following, stepped into the bronze cage that dropped down so noiselessly from nursery floor to wide entrance-hall.  Outside, the limousine was waiting.  She and Jane entered it.  Thomas took his seat beside the chauffeur.  And in a moment the motor was speeding away.

At the riding-school, her master gave her the customary lesson:  She circled the tanbark on her fat brown pony—­now to the right, at a walk; now to the left, at a trot; now back to the right again at a rattling canter, with her yellow hair whipping her shoulders, and her three-cornered hat working farther and farther back on her bobbing head, and tugging hard at the elastic under her dimpled chin.  After nearly an hour of this walk, trot and canter she was very rosy, and quite out of breath.  Then she was put back into the limousine and driven swiftly home.  And it was not until after her arrival that she had a moment entirely to herself, and the first opportunity of comparing her height with the tiny ink-line on the edge of the mirror’s bevel.

Now as she lay, face down, on the window-seat, she know how vain had been all the longing of months.  The realization, so sudden and unexpected, was a blow.  The slender little figure among the cushions quivered under it.

But all at once she sat up.  And disappointment and grief gave place to apprehension.  “I wonder what’s the matter with me,” she faltered aloud.  “Oh, something awful, I guess.”

The next moment caution succeeded fear.  She sprang to her feet and ran across the room.  That tell-tale mark was still on the mirror, for nurse or governess to see and question.  And it was advisable that no one should learn the unhappy truth.  Her handkerchief was damp with tears.  She gathered the tiny square of linen into a tight ball and rubbed at the ink-line industriously.

She was not a moment too soon.  Scarcely had she regained the window-seat, when the hall door opened and Thomas appeared on the sill, almost filling the opening with his tall figure.  As a rule he wore his very splendid footman’s livery of dark blue coat with dull-gold buttons, blue trousers, and striped buff waistcoat.  Now he wore street clothes, and he had a leash in his hand.

“Is Jane about, Miss Gwendolyn?” he inquired.  Then, seeing that Gwendolyn was alone, “Would you mind tellin’ her when she comes that I’m out takin’ the Madam’s dogs for a walk?”

Gwendolyn had a new thought.  “A—­a walk?” she repeated.  And stood up.