She was a stout, conceited sixteen-year-old when her mother died, so spoiled and so self-centred that old Lady Frothingham had been heard more than once to mutter that the young lady could get down from her high horse and make herself useful, or she could march.  But that was six years ago.  And now—­this!  Magsie had evidently decided to make herself useful, but she had managed to make herself beautiful and fascinating as well.  She was in mourning now for the good-hearted old benefactress who had left her a nest-egg of some fifteen thousand dollars, and Rachael noticed with approval that it was correct mourning:  simple, severe, Parisian.  Nothing could have been more becoming to the exquisite bloom of the young face than the soft, clear folds of filmy veiling; under the small, close-set hat there showed a ripple of rich golden hair.  The watching woman thought that she had never seen such self-possession; at twenty-two it was almost uncanny.  The modulated, bored young voice, the lazily lifted, indifferent young eyes, the general air of requesting an appreciative world to be amusing and interesting, or to expect nothing of Miss Magsie Clay, these things caused Rachael a deep, hidden chuckle of amusement.  Little Magsie had turned out to be something of a personality!  Why, she was even employing a distinct and youthfully insolent air of keeping Warren by her side merely on sufferance—­Warren, the cleverest and finest man in the room, who was more than twice her age!

“To think that she is younger than Charlotte!” Rachael ejaculated to herself, catching a glimpse of Charlotte, towed by her mother, uncomfortable, ignored, blinking through her glasses.  And when she and Warren were in the car homeward bound, she spoke admiringly of Magsie.  “Did you ever see any one so improved, Warren?  Really, she’s quite extraordinary!”

Warren smiled absently.

“She’s a terribly spoiled little thing,” he remarked.  “She’s out for a rich man, and she’ll get him!”

“I suppose so,” Rachael agreed, casting about among the men she knew for an appropriate partner for Miss Clay.

“Suppose so!” he echoed in good-humored scorn.  “Don’t you fool yourself, she’ll get what she’s after!  There isn’t a man alive that wouldn’t fall for that particular type!”

“Warren, do you suppose so?” his wife asked in surprise.

“Well, watch and see!”

“Perhaps—­” Rachael’s interest wandered.  “What time have you?” she asked.

He glanced at his watch.  “Six-ten.”

“Six-ten!  Oh, my poor abused baby—­and I should have been here at quarter before six!” She was all mother as she ran upstairs.  Had he been crying?  Oh, he had been crying!  Poor little old duck of a hungry boy, did he have a bad, wicked mother that never remembered him!  He was in her arms in an instant, and the laughing maid carried away her hat and wrap without disturbing his meal.  Rachael leaned back in the big chair, panting comfortably, as much relieved over his relief as he was.  The wedding was forgotten.  She was at home again; she could presently put this baby down and have a little interval of hugging and ’tories with Jimmy.