firm set, and one would not have expected that she would smile
easily; in fact, the general expression of her face was rather
serious.

"Perhaps," continued Laura, "they would look for us outside." But
Page shook her head. She was five years younger than Laura, just
turned seventeen. Her hair, dressed high for the first time this
night, was brown. But Page's beauty was no less marked than her
sister's. The seriousness of her expression, however, was more
noticeable. At times it amounted to undeniable gravity. She was
straight, and her figure, all immature as yet, exhibited hardly any
softer outlines than that of a boy.

"No, no," she said, in answer to Laura's question. "They would come
in here; they wouldn't wait outside--not on such a cold night as
this. Don't you think so, Aunt Wess'?"

But Mrs. Wessels, a lean, middle-aged little lady, with a flat,
pointed nose, had no suggestions to offer. She disengaged herself
from any responsibility in the situation and, while waiting, found a
vague amusement in counting the number of people who filtered in
single file through the wicket where the tickets were presented. A
great, stout gentleman in evening dress, perspiring, his cravatte
limp, stood here, tearing the checks from the tickets, and without
ceasing, maintaining a continuous outcry that dominated the murmur
of the throng:

"Have your tickets ready, please! Have your tickets ready."

"Such a crowd," murmured Page. "Did you ever see--and every one you