“Well, I should hope you wouldn’t, Baby!” answered the older sister, promptly and forcibly.  “Don’t make an utter fool of yourself!”

Emily retired into an enraged silence, and a day or two later, Ella, on a Sunday morning late in February, announced that she was going to chaperone both the girls to the Browning dance on the following Friday night.

Susan was thrown into a most delightful flutter, longing desperately to go, but chilled with nervousness whenever she seriously thought of it.  She lay awake every night anxiously computing the number of her possible partners, and came down to breakfast every morning cold with the resolution that she would make a great mistake in exposing herself to possible snubbing and neglect.  She thought of nothing but the Browning, listened eagerly to what the other girls said of it, her heart sinking when Louise Chickering observed that there never were men enough at the Brownings, and rising again when Alice Chauncey hardily observed that, if a girl was a good dancer, that was all that mattered, she couldn’t help having a good time!  Susan knew she danced well—­

However, Emily succumbed on Thursday to a heart attack.  The whole household went through its usual excitement, the doctor came, the nurse was hurriedly summoned, Susan removed all the smaller articles from Emily’s room, and replaced the bed’s flowery cover with a sheet, the invalid liking the hospital aspect.  Susan was not very much amazed at the suddenness of this affliction; Emily had been notably lacking in enthusiasm about the dance, and on Wednesday afternoon, Ella having issued the casual command, “See if you can’t get a man or two to dine with us at the hotel before the dance, Emily; then you girls will be sure of some partners, anyway!” Emily had spent a discouraging hour at the telephone.

“Hello, George!” Susan had heard her say gaily.  “This is Emily Saunders.  George, I rang up because—­you know the Browning is Friday night, and Ella’s giving me a little dinner at the Palace before it--and I wondered—­we’re just getting it up hurriedly—­” An interval of silence on Emily’s part would follow, then she would resume, eagerly, “Oh, certainly!  I’m sorry, but of course I understand.  Yes, indeed; I’ll see you Friday night—­” and the conversation would be ended.

And, after a moment of silence, she would call another number, and go through the little conversation again.  Susan, filled with apprehensions regarding her own partners, could not blame Emily for the heart attack, and felt a little vague relief on her own account.  Better sure at home than sorry in the dreadful brilliance of a Browning ball!

“I’m afraid this means no dance!” murmured Emily, apologetically.

“As if I cared, Emmy Lou!” Susan reassured her cheerfully.

“Well, I don’t think you would have had a good time, Sue!” Emily said, and the topic of the dance was presumably exhausted.