sixteen "place-cards" yet to finish. In England, the hostess's
entertainments went more smoothly. Things were better arranged
there.

Gradually the girls drifted home to dress; the house grew quiet.
Missy's head was aching. Flushed and paint-daubed, she bent over the
"place-cards."

Mother came to the door.

"Hadn't you better be getting dressed, dear?--it's half-past five."

Half-past five! Heavens! Missy bent more feverishly over the "place-
cards"; there were still two left to colour.

"I'll lay out your dotted Swiss for you," offered mother kindly.

At this mention of her "best dress," Missy found time for a pang of
vain desire. She wished she had a more befitting dinner gown. A
black velvet, perhaps; a "picture dress" with rare old lace, and no
other adornment save diamonds in her hair and ears and round her
throat and wrists.

But, then, velvet might be too hot for August. She visioned herself
in an airy creation of batiste--very simple, but the colour
combination a ravishing mingling of palest pink and baby-blue, with
ribbons fluttering; delicately tinted long gloves; delicately tinted
slippers and silken stockings on her slender, high-arched feet; a
few glittering rings on her restless fingers; one blush-pink rose in
her hair which, simply arranged, suffered two or three stray