Then motor “togs”—­a long linen duster, with a cap and goggles—­seemed a most convenient mask for so many young men, who were not vain enough to want to don doublet and hose.

But there were some courtiers, and they did look romantic.  Perhaps that stout girl in the white Empire gown, with a baby cap on her head, and a rattler around her neck, might be Bess Robinson.

But the Winter girls were both stout—­as stout as Bess.  Then that thin creature, so tall that she suggested a section of sugar cane (could she actually be in one piece), might be Belle.  The Psyche knot at the back of her head, and the wreath of wild olive, certainly bespoke Belle.

What had Cora done?  Whom had she impersonated?  There were many who wished to know this, and there were so many pretty persons that very likely she might have taken a very simple character.  Cora disliked too much trouble, where trouble did not seem to count.

That splendid figure of Liberty might be she.  Or that indolent Cleopatra on the rustic bench under the white birch tree—­she made a pretty picture.  But Cora would not pose as this one was doing.  The vacant seat beside the girl was too glaring an invitation for Cora to offer.  Perhaps she might be that suffragette, who went about demanding “Votes for women!” See!  There she is now, holding up Marc Anthony!

A most attractive figure was Night or Luna.  The coloring would have suited Cora—­the black hair and the silvery trimmings of the robe to represent the moon but it was not like Cora to seek the dark spots of the garden that her moonbeams might be the brighter.  The boys had a certain fancy for moonlight—­hand made.

“I’ll wager you are Bess,” whispered a very handsome Adonis in a real Greek costume—­all but the pedestal.

“Yes,” answered the girl with a titter.  “As you please—­but, I pray you, fair sir, am I not a good milkmaid?”

“The best ever,” replied Adonis.  “Pray let us stroll in yonder meadow.”

Slipping his hand into the bare arm of the milkmaid, Adonis drew the figure down a pith toward the small lake that was on one edge of the Kimball property.

“Now I have some one to talk to,” he declared with evident satisfaction.

“Oh, is that all?” replied the maid in some contempt “I can’t see just why I should fill in that way,” and she arose from her seat at the water’s edge.  “Besides,” she added, “I hate Greeks.  They are so vain!” and with this she hurried after a girl in a nun’s costume, who was walking along the path to the pavilion.

“Well!” exclaimed the disappointed youth, “that was hard luck.  And just as I was going to say something nice, too.  However, it’ll keep, I suppose,” and he followed the two figures—­the nun and the milkmaid—­toward the dancing platform.

A veritable Rosebud was bowing on the porch to the row of unmasked patronesses, several ladies of Mrs. Kimball’s set, who had volunteered to help her receive.