the men lose their heads like so many sheep?  She adjusted her lorgnette and again took an inventory of the girl’s appearance.  It was eminently satisfactory even when viewed from the critical standard of Mrs. Standish Tremont.  A delicately oval face, with low smooth brow, from which the night-black hair rippled in softly crested waves and clung about the temples in tiny circling ringlets, delicate as the faintest shading of a crayon pencil.  Heavily fringed lids that lent mysterious depths to the great brown eyes that were sorrowful beyond their years.  A mouth made for kisses—­a perfect Cupid’s bow; in color, the red of the pomegranate—­such was Anna Moore, the great lady’s young kinswoman, who was getting her first glimpse of the world this autumn afternoon.

“You were born to be a Harvard girl, Miss Moore, the crimson becomes you go perfectly, that great bunch of Jacqueminots is just what you need to bring out the color in your cheeks,” said Arnold Lester, rather an old beau, and one of Mrs. Endicott’s devoted cavaliers.

“Miss Moore is making her roses pale with envy,” gallantly answered Robert Maynard.  He had not been able to take his eyes from the girl’s face since he met her.

Anna looked down at her roses and smiled.  Her gown and gloves were black.  The great fragrant bunch was the only suggestion of color that she had worn for over a year.  She was still in mourning for her father, one of the first great financial magnates to go under in the last Wall Street crash.  His failure killed him, and the young daughter and the invalid wife were left practically unprovided for.

Mrs. Tremont could hardly conceal her annoyance.  She had met her young cousin for the first time the preceding summer and taking a fancy to her; she exacted a promise from the girl’s mother that Anna should pay her a visit the following autumn.  But she reckoned without the girl’s beauty and the havoc it would make with her plans.  The discussion as to the roses outvieing Anna’s cheeks in color was abruptly terminated by a great cheer that rolled simultaneously along both sides of the field as the two teams entered the lists.  Cheer upon cheer went up, swelled and grew in volume, only to be taken up again and again, till the sound became one vast echoing roar without apparent end or beginning.

From the moment the teams appeared, Anna Moore had no eyes or ears for sights or sounds about her.  Every muscle in her lithe young body was strained to catch a glimpse of one familiar figure.  She had little difficulty in singling him out from the rest.  He had stripped off his sweater and stood with head well down, his great limbs tense, straining for the word to spring.  Anna’s breath came quickly, as if she had been running, the roses that he had sent her heaved with the tumult in her breast.  It seemed to her as if she must cry out with the delight of seeing him again.

“Look, Grace,” said Mrs. Standish Tremont, to the younger of her nieces, “there is Lennox Sanderson.”