which Hillsboro has never yet recovered. I was sixteen, felt dreadfully
naked without a tucker in my dress, and saw Alfred for the first time in
evening clothes--his first. I can hardly stand thinking about how he
looked even now. I haven't been to very many dinner-parties in my life,
but from this time on I mean to indulge in them often. Candle-light,
pretty women's shoulders, black coat sleeves, cut glass and flowers are
good ingredients for a joy-drink, and why not?

But when I got to planning about the gorgeous food I wanted to give them
all, I got into what I feel came near being a serious trouble. It was
writing down the recipe for the nesselrode pudding they make in my
family that undid me. Suddenly hunger rose up from nowhere and gripped
me by the throat, gnawed me all over like a bone, then shook me until I
was limp and unresisting. I must have astralized myself down to the
pantry, for when I became conscious I found myself in company with a
loaf of bread, a plate of butter and a huge jar of jam.

I sat down by the long table by the window and slowly prepared to enjoy
myself. I cut off four slices and buttered them to an equal thickness
and then more slowly put a long silver spoon into the jam. I even paused
to admire in Judy's mirror over the table the effect of the cascade of
lace that fell across my arm and lost itself in the blue shimmer of old
Rene's masterpiece of a negligée, then deep down I buried the spoon in
the purple sweetness. I had just lifted it high in the air when out of
the lilac-scented dark of the garden came a laugh.

[Illustration: "Why Molly, Molly, Molly!"]

"Why, Molly, Molly, Molly!" drawled that miserable man-doctor as he came
and leaned on the sill right close to my elbow. The spoon crashed on the