“We-ell, not dying!” A dimple would betray the companion’s demureness.

“Not dying?  No, I suppose not!  Well, you tell Emily that she’s a silly, selfish little cat, or words to that effect!”

“I’ll choose words to that effect,” Susan would assure the speaker, smilingly.

“You couldn’t come, anyway, I suppose?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Willis!  Thank you so much!”

“No, of course not.”  The matron would bite her lips in momentary irritation, and, when they parted, the cause of that pretty, appreciative, amusing little companion of Emily Saunders would be appreciably strengthened.

One winter morning Emily tossed a square, large envelope across the breakfast table toward her companion.

“Sue, that looks like a Browning invitation!  What do you bet that he’s sent you a card for the dances!”

“He couldn’t!” gasped Susan, snatching it up, while her eyes danced, and the radiant color flooded her face.  Her hand actually shook when she tore the envelope open, and as the engraved card made its appearance, Susan’s expression might have been that of Cinderella eyeing her coach-and-four.

For Browning—­founder of the cotillion club, and still manager of the four or five winter dances—­was the one unquestioned, irrefutable, omnipotent social authority of San Francisco.  To go to the “Brownings” was to have arrived socially; no other distinction was equivalent, because there was absolutely no other standard of judgment.  Very high up, indeed, in the social scale must be the woman who could resist the temptation to stick her card to the Brownings in her mirror frame, where the eyes of her women friends must inevitably fall upon it, and yearly hundreds of matrons tossed through sleepless nights, all through the late summer and the fall, hoping against hope, despairing, hoping again, that the magic card might really be delivered some day in early December, and her debutante daughter’s social position be placed beyond criticism once more.  Only perhaps one hundred persons out of “Brownie’s” four hundred guests could be sure of the privilege.  The others must suffer and wait.

Browning himself, a harassed, overworked, kindly gentleman, whose management of the big dances brought him nothing but responsibility and annoyance, threatened yearly to resign from his post, and yearly was dragged back into the work, fussing for hours with his secretary over the list, before he could personally give it to the hungrily waiting reporters with the weary statement that it was absolutely correct, that no more names were to be added this year, that he did not propose to defend, through the columns of the press, his omission of certain names and his acceptance of others, and that, finally, he was off for a week’s vacation in the southern part of the state, and thanked them all for their kindly interest in himself and his efforts for San Francisco society.

It was the next morning’s paper that was so anxiously awaited, and so eagerly perused in hundreds of luxurious boudoirs—­exulted over, or wept over and reviled,—­but read by nearly every woman in the city.