"Yes," said Wayne. "Why weren't you?"

"I wasn't asked. It isn't the fashion to ask mothers and daughters to the
same parties any more. We dance so much better than they do." She leaned
over, and rang the little enamel bell that dangled at the arm of her
daughter's sofa. "You can't imagine, Mr. Wayne, how much better I dance
than Mathilde."

"I hope it needn't be left to the imagination."

"Oh, I'm not sure. That was the subject of Aunt Alberta's talk this
afternoon--my still dancing. She says she put on caps at thirty-five."
Mrs. Farron ran her eyebrows whimsically together and looked up at her
daughter's visitor.

Mathilde was immensely grateful to her mother for taking so much trouble
to be charming; only now she rather spoiled it by interrupting Wayne in
the midst of a sentence, as if she had never been as much interested as
she had seemed. Pringle had appeared in answer to her ring, and she asked
him sharply:

"Is Mr. Farron in?"

"Mr. Farron's in his room, Madam."

At this she appeared to give her attention wholly back to Wayne, but
Mathilde knew that she was really busy composing an escape. She seemed to
settle back, to encourage her visitor to talk indefinitely; but when the
moment came for her to answer, she rose to her feet in the midst of her