Barbara was at an age when exactly those things that a certain small group of her contemporaries did, said, and thought, made all her world.  She wished to be with these young people all the time; she wished for nothing else, to-day she was heartsick because there was to be a weekend house party to which she was not invited.  A personal summons from the greatest queen of Europe would have meant nothing to Barbara to-day, except for its effect upon the little circle she desired so eagerly to impress.  Parents, sisters, and brothers, nature, science, and art, were but pale shapes about her.  The burning fact was that Elinor Sparrow had asked the others down for tennis Saturday and to stay overnight, and had asked her, Barbara, to join them on Sunday for luncheon—­

“Tell Aunt Sanna about the wedding, dear!” commanded Mrs. Toland suddenly.  Barbara smiled with mechanical brightness.

“Oh, it was lovely!  Every one was there.  Georgie looked stunning—­ ever so much prettier than Hazel!” she said, rather lifelessly.

“Tell Aunt Sanna who got the bride’s bouquet!”

“Oh,” Barbara again assumed an expression of animation.  “Oh, I did.”

“Jim go?”

“Oh, yes, he went with the Russells.  That’s getting to be quite a case, you know,” Barbara said airily.

“I thought that was Elinor Sparrow and her mother,” Mrs. Toland said, bowing to two ladies who were now at some distance, and were leaving the room.  “They were at that table, but I couldn’t be sure who they were until they got up.”

“Was Elinor right there?” Barbara asked quickly.

“Why, yes; but as I say—­”

Barbara pushed back her broiled bird with a gesture of utter exasperation.

“I think you might have said something about it, Mother,” she said, angry and disappointed.

“Why, my darling,” Mrs. Toland began, fluttered, “how could I dream—­besides, as I say, I couldn’t see—­”

“You knew how I felt about Saturday,” Barbara said bitterly, “and you let them sit there an hour!  I could have turned around—­I could have—­”

“Listen to Mother, dear.  You—­”

“And I can’t understand why you wouldn’t naturally mention it,” Barbara interrupted, in a high, critical voice.  Tears trembled into her eyes.  “I would have given a great deal to have seen Elinor to-day,” she said stiffly.

Mrs. Toland, smitten dumb with penitence, could only eye her with sympathy and distress.

“Listen, dear,” she suggested eagerly, after a moment.  “Suppose you run out and see Elinor in the cloakroom?  Mother’s so sorry she—­”

“No, I couldn’t do that,” Barbara answered moodily.  “It would have been all right to have it just seem to happen—­No, it doesn’t make any difference, Mother.  Please—­please—­don’t bother about it.”

“I’m sure Elinor didn’t see you,” Mrs. Toland continued.  Barbara, throwing her a glance of utter weariness, begged politely: