To Galt himself, the different developments of the two women had become a source of almost humorous surprise.  After her marriage Sally had sunk her future into Tom’s; Galt had submerged his own in Juliet’s.  Behind Tom’s not too remarkable success Galt had seen always Sally’s quicker wit and more active nature; to his own ambitions, his love for Juliet had been the retarding influence.  He had been called “insanely aspiring” in his profession, and yet he had sacrificed his career without a murmur for the sake of his wife’s health.  He had sundered his professional interests in New York that he might see the colour rebloom in her cheek, and neither he nor she had questioned that the loss was justified.  In return she had rendered him a jealous loyalty and an absorbing wifehood, and he had found his happiness apart from his ambition.

Now she dimpled as he looked at her and he pinched her cheek.

“The mother of six children!” he exclaimed; “they’re changelings.”  He looked at Carrie, who was flitting nervously from room to room.

“It’s a shame she didn’t take after you,” he added.  “She carries the curse of my chin.”

“She’s splendid!” protested Juliet.  “I never had such a figure in my life; Sally says so.  Carrie is a new woman, that’s the difference.”

“But the old lady’s good enough for me,” finished Galt triumphantly; then he melted towards his daughter.  “I dare say she’s stunning,” he observed.  “Come here, Carrie, and bear witness that you’re as handsome as your parents.”

Carrie floated up, a straight, fine figure in white organdie, her smooth hair shining like satin as it rolled from her brow.  Her mouth and chin were too strong for beauty, but she was frank and clean and fresh to look at.

“Oh, I am just like you,” she declared, “and I’m not half so pretty as mamma.  There’s the bell.  Somebody’s coming!”

There was a rustle of women’s skirts on the way upstairs, and in a moment several light-coloured gowns were fringed by the palms in the doorway.

When the governor entered, several hours later, the rooms were filled with warmth and laughter and the vague perfume of women’s dresses mingled with the odour of American Beauty roses.  An old-fashioned polka was in the air, and beyond the furthest doorway he saw young people dancing.  The red candles were burning down, and drops of wax lay like flecks of blood upon the floor.  Near the entrance, a small, dark woman was leaning upon a marble table, and as she saw him she held out a cordial hand.  She was plain and thin, with pale, startled eyes and a mouth that slanted upward at one corner, like a crooked seam.  She spoke in an abrupt, skipping manner that possessed a surprising fascination.

“Behold the conquering hero!” she exclaimed, her pale eyes roving from side to side.  “I suppose if you were never late, you would never be longed for.”

“My dear Miss Preston,” protested pretty little Mrs. Carrington, who was soft and drowsy, with eyes that reminded one of a ruminating heifer’s.