Presently, with a shout of pleasure that drew some attention to their group, Peter Coleman came up to them.  It appeared that he was to be Miss Saunders’ guest at luncheon, too, and he took charge of the radiant Susan with evident satisfaction, and much laughter.

“Dear me!  I wish I was going, too,” said Mary Lou mildly, as they parted.  “But I presume a certain young man is very glad I am not,” she added, with deep finesse.  Peter laughed out, but turned red, and Susan wished impatiently that Mary Lou would not feel these embarrassing inanities to be either welcome or in good taste.

But no small cloud could long shadow the perfect day.  The Saunders’ home, set in emerald lawns, brightened by gay-striped awnings, fragrant with flowers indoors and out, was quite the most beautiful she had ever seen.  Emily’s family was all cordiality; the frail, nervous, richly dressed little mother made a visible effort to be gracious to this stranger, and Emily’s big sister, Ella, in whom Susan recognized the very fat young woman of the Zinkand party, was won by Susan’s irrepressible merriment to abandon her attitude of bored, good-natured silence, and entered into the conversation at luncheon with sudden zest.  The party was completed by Mrs. Saunders’ trained nurse, Miss Baker, a placid young woman who did not seem, to Susan, to appreciate her advantages in this wonderful place, and the son of the house, Kenneth, a silent, handsome, pale young man, who confined his remarks during luncheon to the single observation, made to Peter, that he was “on the wagon.”

The guest wondered what dinner would be, if this were luncheon merely.  Everything was beautifully served, smoking hot or icy cold, garnished and seasoned miraculously.  Subtle flavors contended with other flavors, whipped cream appeared in most unexpected places—­on the bouillon, and in a rosette that topped the salad—­of the hot bread and the various chutneys and jellies and spiced fruits and cheeses and olives alone, Susan could have made a most satisfactory meal.  She delighted in the sparkling glass, the heavy linen and silver, the exquisite flowers.  Together they seemed to form a lulling draught for her senses; Susan felt as if undue cold, undue heat, haste and worry and work, the office with its pencil-dust and ink-stains and her aunt’s house, odorous, dreary and dark, were alike a half-forgotten dream.

After luncheon they drove to a bright, wide tennis-court, set in glowing gardens, and here Susan was introduced to a score of noisy, white-clad young people, and established herself comfortably on a bench near the older women, to watch the games.  This second social experience was far happier than her first, perhaps because Susan resolutely put her thoughts on something else than herself to-day, watched and laughed, talked when she could, was happily silent when she could not, and battled successfully with the thought of neglect whenever it raised its head.  Bitter as her lesson had been she was grateful for it to-day.