“That’s for us to find out,” said Mrs. Burgoyne, cheerfully.

“A correct diagnosis is half a cure,” ended the doctor, hopefully.

CHAPTER IX

Barry was the last guest to reach Holly Hall on the evening of Mrs. Burgoyne’s first dinner-party, and came in to find the great painter who was her guest the centre of a laughing and talking group in the long drawing-room.  Mrs. Apostleman, with an open book of reproductions from Whistler on her broad, brocade lap, had the armchair next to the guest of honor, and Barry’s quick look for his hostess discovered her on a low hassock at the painter’s knee, looking very young and fresh, in her white frock, with a LaMarque rose at her belt and another in her dark hair.  She greeted him very gravely, almost timidly, and in the new self-consciousness that had suddenly come to them both it was with difficulty that even the commonplace words of greeting were accomplished, and it was with evident relief that she turned from him to ask her guests to come into the dining-room.

Warm daylight was still pouring into the drawing-room at seven o’clock, and in the pleasant dining-room, too, there was no other light.  The windows here were wide open, and garden scents drifted in from the recently watered flower-beds.  The long table, simply set, was ornamented only by low bowls of the lovely San Rafael roses.

Guided and stimulated by the hostess, the conversation ran in a gay, unbroken stream, for the painter liked to talk, and Santa Paloma enjoyed him.  But under it all the women guests were aware of an almost resentful amazement at the simplicity of the dinner.  When, after nine o’clock, the ladies went into the drawing-room and settled about a snapping wood fire, Mrs. Lloyd could not resist whispering to Mrs. Apostleman, “For a company dinner!” Mrs. Adams was entirely absorbed in deciding just what position she would take when Mrs. White alluded to the affair the next day; but Mrs. White had come primed for special business this evening, and she took immediate advantage of the absence of the men to speak to Mrs. Burgoyne.

“As president of our little club,” said she, when they were all seated, “I am authorized to ask you if I may put your name up for membership, Mrs. Burgoyne.  We are all members here, and in this quiet place our meetings are a real pleasure, and I hope an education as well.”

“Oh, really—!” Mrs. Burgoyne began, but the other went on serenely: 

“I brought one of our yearly programs, we have just got them out, and I’m going to leave it with you.  I think Mr. White left it here on the table.  Yes; here it is.  You see,” she opened a dainty little book and flattened it with a white, jeweled hand, “our work is all laid out, up to the president’s breakfast in March.  I go out then, and a week later we inaugurate the new president.  Let me just run over this for you, for I know it will interest you.  Now