would not attempt to guess who it was. So they had to tell him.

"It was all on your account that we asked her," said Doreen, hurt by his
indifference. "You took such a fancy to her, and she to you, apparently,
at the Hutchinsons' dance, that we thought you'd be delighted.
_Now_, don't you know who it is?"

To their great disappointment, both girls saw that he didn't. Mr.
Wedmore, from the other end of the room, was observing this little
incident with considerable annoyance. The young lady in question, Miss
Mildred Appleby, was very pretty, and would be well dowered, and Mr.
Wedmore had entered heartily into the plan of inviting her to spend
Christmas with them, in the hope that Max would propose, be accepted,
and that he would then make up his mind to settle.

"Why, it's Mildred Appleby," said Doreen, impatiently, when her
brother's blank look had given her the wrong answer. "Surely, you don't
mean to say you've forgotten all about her?"

"Oh, no, I remember her," answered Max, indifferently. "Tall girl with a
fashion-plate face, waltzes pretty well and can't talk. Yes, I remember
her, of course."

"Is that all you have to say about her?" cried Doreen, betraying her
disappointment. "Why, a month ago she was the nicest and the jolliest
and the everythingest girl you had ever met."

"He's seen somebody else since then," remarked the observant Queenie, in
her dry, little voice. "When he was in town yesterday, perhaps."