“Moth-er!”

Cheek caressed cheek.

“She’s six, isn’t she, my dear?” asked the plain, elderly one.

“Oh, she’s seven.”  A soft hand stroked the yellow hair.

“As much as that?  Really?”

The inference was not lost upon Gwendolyn.  She tightened her embrace.  And turning her head on her mother’s breast, looked frank resentment.

The visitors were not watching her.  They were exchanging glances—­and smiles, faint and uneasy.  Slowly now they began to move toward the hall door, which stood open.  Beside it, waiting with an impressive air, was Miss Royle.

“I think we must go, Louise.”

“Oh, we must,”—­quickly.  “Dear me!  I’d almost forgot!  We’ve promised to lunch with one or two people down-town.”

“I wish you were lunching here,” said Gwendolyn’s mother.  She freed herself gently from the clinging arms and followed the two.  “Miss Royle, will you take Gwendolyn?”

As the governess promptly advanced, with a half-bow, and a set smile that was like a grimace, Gwendolyn raised a face tense with earnestness.  Until half an hour before, her whole concern had been for herself.  But now!  To fail to grow up, to have her long-cherished hopes come short of fulfillment—­that was one thing.  To know that her mother and father had real and serious troubles of their own, that was another!

“Oh, moth-er!  Don’t you go!”

“Mother must tell the ladies good-by.”

“What touching affection!” It was the elder of the visiting pair.

Miss Royle assented with a simper.

“Will you come back?” urged Gwendolyn, dropping her voice.  “Oh, I want to see you”—­darting a look sidewise—­“all by myself.”

There was a wheel and a flutter at the door—­another silent exchange of comment, question and exclamation, all mingled eloquently.  Then Louise swept back.

“What a bright child!” she enthused.  “Does she speak French?”

“She is acquiring two tongues at present,” answered Gwendolyn’s mother proudly, “—­French and German.”

“Splendid!” It was the elder woman.  “I think every little girl should have those.  And later on, I suppose, Greek and Latin?”

“I’ve thought of Spanish and Italian.”

“Eventually,” informed Miss Royle, with a conscious, sinuous shift from foot to foot, “Gwendolyn will have seven tongues at her command.”

“How chic!” Once more the gloved hand was extended—­to pat the pink-satin hair-bow.

Gwendolyn accepted the pat stolidly.  Her eyes were fixed on her mother’s face.

Now, the elder of the strangers drew closer.  “I wonder,” she began, addressing her hostess with almost a coy air, “if we could induce you to take lunch with us down-town.  Wouldn’t that be jolly, Louise?”—­turning.

“Awfully jolly!”

“Do come!”