Mr. Houghton continued to say nothing; and the “care” Maurice denied, dogged all his busy interest in his dinner—­for which he had made the plans, as Eleanor, until the term ended, was obliged to go out to Medfield to give her music lessons; besides, “planning” was not her forte!  But in the thrill of excitement about the dinner and in the mounting adventure of being happy, she was able to forget her fear that Mr. Houghton might be “horrid” to Maurice.  If the Houghtons didn’t like an elopement, it would mean that they had no romance in them!  She was absorbed in her ardent innocent purpose of “impressing” Maurice’s friends, not from vanity, but because she wanted to please him.  As she dressed that evening, all her self-distrust vanished, and she smiled at herself in the mirror for sheer delight, for his sake, in her dark, shining eyes, and the red loveliness of her full lip.  In this wholly new experience of feeling, not only happy, but important,—­she forgot Mrs. Newbolt, sailing angrily for Europe that very day, and was not even anxious about the Houghtons!  After all, what difference did it make what such people thought of elopements?  “Fuddy-duddies!” she said to herself, using Maurice’s slang with an eager sense of being just as young as he was.

When the guests arrived and they all filed into the private and very expensive dining room, Eleanor looked indeed quite “stunning”; her shyness did not seem shyness, but only a sort of proud beauty of silence, which might cover Heaven knows what deeps of passion and of knowledge!  Little Rose was glowing and simpering, and the two older ladies were giving each other significant glances.  Maurice’s “fellows,” shepherded by their host, shambled speechlessly along in the background.  The instant that they saw the bride they had fallen into dumbness.  Brown said, under his breath to Hastings, “Gosh!” And Hastings gave Morton a thrust in the ribs, which Morton’s dignity refused to notice; later, when he was at Eleanor’s right, the flattery of her eagerly attentive silence instantly won him.  Maurice had so expatiated to her upon Morton’s brains, that she was really in awe of him—­of which, of course, Morton was quite aware!  It was so exhilarating to his twenty years that he gave his host a look of admiring congratulation—­and Maurice’s pride rose high!—­then fell; for, somehow, his dinner wouldn’t “go”!  He watched the younger men turn frankly rude shoulders to the older ladies, who did their best to be agreeable.  He caught stray words:  Eleanor’s efforts to talk as Rose talked—­Rose’s dog was “perfectly sweet,” but “simply awful”; then a dog story; “wasn’t that killing?” And Eleanor:  she once had a cat—­“perfectly frightfully cunning!” said Eleanor, stumbling among the adverbs of adolescence.

At Rose’s story the young men roared, but Eleanor’s cat awoke no interest.  Then one of the “faded flowers” spoke to Brown, who said, vaguely, “What, ma’am?”

The other lady was murmuring in Maurice’s ear: