and delight in, a conspicuous place in society, and one that she knew that she could fill gracefully and well.  Marriage meant children, dear little white-clad sons, with sturdy bare knees, and tiny daughters half-smothered in lace and ribbons; it meant power, power to do good, to develop her own gifts; it meant, above all, a solution of the problems of her youth.  No more speculations, no more vagaries, safely anchored, happily absorbed in normal cares and pleasures, Susan could rest on her laurels, and look about her in placid content!

No more serious thought assailed her.  Other thoughts than these were not “nice.”  Susan safe-guarded her wandering fancies as sternly as she did herself, would as quickly have let Peter, or any other man, kiss her, as to have dreamed of the fundamental and essential elements of marriage.  These, said Auntie, “came later.”  Susan was quite content to ignore them.  That the questions that “came later” might ruin her life or unmake her compact, she did not know.  At this point it might have made no difference in her attitude.  Her affection for Peter was quite as fresh and pure as her feeling for a particularly beloved brother would have been.

“You’re dated three-deep for Thursday night, I presume?”

“Peter—­how you do creep up behind one!” Susan turned, on the deck, to face him laughingly.  “What did you say?”

“I said—­but where are you going?”

“Upstairs to lunch.  Where did you think?” Susan exhibited the little package in her hand.  “Do I look like a person about to go to a Browning Cotillion, or to take a dip in the Pacific?”

“No,” gurgled Peter, “but I was wishing we could lunch together.  However, I’m dated with Hunter.  But what about Thursday night?”

“Thursday.”  Susan reflected.  “Peter, I can’t!”

“All foolishness.  You can.”

“No, honestly!  Georgie and Joe are coming.  The first time.”

“Oh, but you don’t have to be there!”

“Oh, but yes I do!”

“Well—–­” Mr. Coleman picked a limp rubber bathing cap from the top of a case, and distended it on two well-groomed hands.  “Well, Evangeline, how’s Sat.?  The great American pay-day!”

“Busy Saturday, too.  Too bad.  I’m sorry, Peter.”

“Woman, you lie!”

“Of course you can insult me, sir.  I’m only a working girl!”

“No, but who have you got a date with?” Peter said curiously.  “You’re blushing like mad!  You’re not engaged at all!”

“Yes, I am.  Truly.  Lydia Lord is taking the civil service examinations; she wants to get a position in the public library.  And I promised that I’d take Mary’s dinner up and sit with her.”

“Oh, shucks!  You could get out of that!  However——­I’ll tell you what, Susan.  I was going off with Russ on Sunday, but I’ll get out of it, and we’ll go see guard mount at the Presidio, and have tea with Aunt Clara, what?”

“I don’t believe they have guard mount on Sundays.”