And Nina had “come out.”  It had cost a great deal, and it was not so much to introduce her to society as to put a family recognition on a fact already accomplished, for Nina had brought herself out unofficially at sixteen.  There had been the club ballroom, and a great many flowers which withered before they could be got to the hospital; and new clothing for all the family, and a caterer and orchestra.  After that, for a cold and tumultuous winter Mrs. Wheeler had sat up with the dowagers night after night until all hours, and the next morning had let Nina sleep, while she went about her household duties.  She had aged, rather, and her determined smile had grown a little fixed.

She was a good woman, and she wanted her children’s happiness more than anything in the world, but she had a faint and sternly repressed feeling of relief when Nina announced her engagement.  Nina did it with characteristic sangfroid, at dinner one night.

“Don’t ring for Annie for a minute, mother,” she said.  “I want to tell you all something.  I’m going to marry Leslie Ward.”

There had been a momentary pause.  Then her father said: 

“Just a minute.  Is that Will Ward’s boy?”

“Yes.  He’s not a boy.”

“Well, he’ll come around to see me before there’s any engagement.  Has that occurred to either of you?”

“Oh, he’ll be around.  He’d have come to-night, but Howard Moore is having his bachelor dinner.  I hope he doesn’t look shot to pieces to-morrow.  These bachelor things—!  We’d better have a dinner or something, mother, and announce it.”

There had been the dinner, with a silver loving cup bought for the occasion, and thereafter to sit out its useless days on the Sheraton sideboard.  And there had been a trousseau and a wedding so expensive that a small frown of anxiety had developed between Walter Wheeler’s eyebrows and stayed there.

For Nina’s passion for things was inherent, persisting after her marriage.  She discounted her birthday and Christmases in advance, coming around to his office a couple of months before the winter holidays and needing something badly.

“It’s like this, daddy,” she would say.  “You’re going to give me a check for Christmas anyhow, aren’t you?  And it would do me more good now.  I simply can’t go to another ball.”

“Where’s your trousseau?”

“It’s worn out-danced to rags.  And out of date, too.”

“I don’t understand it, Nina.  You and Leslie have a good income.  Your mother and I—­”

“You didn’t have any social demands.  And wedding presents!  If one more friend of mine is married—­”

He would get out his checkbook and write a check slowly and thoughtfully.  And tearing it off would say: 

“Now remember, Nina, this is for Christmas.  Don’t feel aggrieved when the time comes and you have no gift from us.”

But he knew that when the time came Margaret, his wife, would hold out almost to the end, and then slip into a jeweler’s and buy Nina something she simply couldn’t do without.