On the other hand, it must not be supposed that the singular training of Evelyn had absolutely destroyed her inherited tendencies, or made her as she was growing into womanhood anything but a very real woman, with the reserves, the weaknesses, the coquetries, the defenses which are the charm of her sex.  Nor was she so ignorant of life as such a guarded personality might be thought.  Her very wide range of reading had liberalized her mind, and given her a much wider outlook upon the struggles and passions and failures and misery of life than many another girl of her age had gained by her limited personal experience.  Those who hold the theory that experience is the only guide are right as a matter of fact, since every soul seems determined to try for itself and not to accept the accumulated wisdom of literature or of experienced advisers; but those who come safely out of their experiences are generally sound by principle which has been instilled in youth.  But it is useless to moralize.  Only the event could show whether such an abnormal training as Evelyn had received was wise.

When Mrs. Mavick went to her daughter’s apartments she found Evelyn reading aloud and Miss McDonald at work on an elaborate piece of Bulgarian embroidery.

“How industrious!  What a rebuke to me!”

“I don’t see, mamma, how we could be doing less; I’ve only an audience of one, and she is wasting her time.”

“Well, carissima, it is settled.  It’s off for a year.”

“The reception?  Why so?”

“Your father cannot arrange it.  He has too much on hand this season, and may be away.”

“There, McDonald, we’ve got a reprieve,” and Evelyn gave a sigh of relief.

The Scotch woman smiled, and only said, “Then I shall have time to finish this.”

Evelyn jumped up, threw herself into her mother’s lap, and began to smooth her hair and pet her.  “I’m awfully glad.  I’d ever so much rather stay in than come out.  Yes, dear little mother.”

“Little?”

“Yes.”  And the girl pulled her mother from her chair, and made her stand up to measure.  “See, McDonald, almost an inch taller than mamma, and when I do my hair on top!”

“And see, mamma”—­the girl was pirouetting on the floor—­“I can do those steps you do.  Isn’t it Spanish?”

“Rather Spanish-American, I guess.  This is the way.”

Evelyn clapped her hands.  “Isn’t that lovely!”

“You are only a little brownie, after all.”  Her mother was holding her at arm’s—­length and studying her critically, wondering if she would ever be handsome.