her feet. "Now I'll get on my gloves and we'll start."

She turned slowly before the mirror, examining quite frankly the
hang of her skirt, the fit of her close-cut waist, the turn of the
adorable round, low-cut collars that were then the mode.

"It pays to be particular; we are in New York," she answered, or
parried, Orde's glance of admiration.

The gloves finally drawn on and buttoned, Orde held aside the
portieres, and she passed fairly under his uplifted hand. He wanted
to drop his arm about her, this slender girl with her quaint
dignity, her bird-like ways, her gentle, graceful, mysterious,
feminine soul. The flame-red bird lent its colour to her cheeks;
her eyes, black and fathomless, the pupils wide in this dim light,
shone with two stars of delight.

But, as they moved toward the massive front doors, Mrs. Bishop came
down the stairs behind them. She, too, was dressed for the street.
She received Orde's greeting and congratulation over her improved
health in rather an absent manner. Indeed, as soon as she could
hurry this preliminary over, she plunged into what evidently she
considered a more important matter.

"You aren't thinking of going out, are you?" she asked Carroll.

"I told you, mother; don't you remember? Mr. Orde and I are going
to get a little air in the park."

"I'm sorry," said Mrs. Bishop, with great brevity and decision, "but