Hunter, of course, was to be one of the grownups.  He had sent Mary Virginia the flowers she was to wear.  And she had a new dancing frock, quite the loveliest and fluffiest and laciest she had ever worn.

He was somewhat late.  And so engrossed with him were all her thoughts, so eager was she to see him, that she was a disappointing companion for anybody else.  She couldn’t talk to anybody else.  She flitted in and out of laughing groups like a blue-and-silver butterfly, and finally managed to slip away to the stair nook behind what Mrs. Baker liked to call the conservatory.  This was merely a portion of the big back hall glassed in and hung with a yellow silk curtain; it had a tiny round crystal fountain in the center and one or two carved seats, but one wouldn’t think so small a space could hold so much bloom and fragrance.  From the nook where Mary Virginia sat, one could hear every word spoken in the flower-room, though the hearer remained hidden by the paneled stairway.

Hands in her lacy lap, eyes abstracted, she fell into the dreams that youth dreams; in which a girl—­one’s self, say,—­walks hand in hand through an enchanted world with a being very, very little lower than the angels and twice as dear.  They are such innocent dreams, such impossible dreams, so untouched of all reality; but I wonder, oh I wonder, if life can ever give us anything to repay their loss!

Somebody spoke in the conservatory and she looked up, startled.  Through a parting in the silk curtain she glimpsed the woman and recognized one of Estelle’s friends, handsome and fashionable, but a woman she had never liked.

“You provoke me.  You try my patience too much!” she was saying, in a tone of suppressed anger.  “People are beginning to say that you have a serious affair with that sugar-candy chit.  I want to know if that is true?”

The man laughed, a lazy, pleasant, disarming laugh.  She knew that laugh among a million, and her heart began to beat, but not with doubt or distrust.  She wondered how she had missed him, and if he had been looking for her; she thought of the exquisite secret that bound them together, and wondered how he was going to protect it without evasions or untruthfulness.  And she thought the woman abominable.

“You’re so suspicious, Evie!” he said smilingly.  “Why bother about what can give you no real concern?  Why discuss it here, at all?  It’s not the thing, really.”

The woman stamped her foot.  She had an able-bodied temper.

“I will know, and I will know now.  I have to know,” said she, and her voice shook.  Mary Virginia would have coughed then, would have made her presence known had she been able; but something held her silent.  “Remember, you’re not dealing with a love-sick school-girl now, Howard:  you are dealing with me.  Have you made that little fool think you’re in love with her?”

“Why, and what then?” he asked coolly.  “I like the child.  Of course she is without form and void as yet, but there’s quite a lot to that girl.”