Isabelle started toward the dressing-room for a last peek in the mirror,
but something decided her to stand there and gaze down the broad stairs
of the Minnehaha Club. They curved tantalizingly, and she could catch
just a glimpse of two pairs of masculine feet in the hall below.
Pump-shod in uniform black, they gave no hint of identity, but she
wondered eagerly if one pair were attached to Amory Blaine. This young
man, not as yet encountered, had nevertheless taken up a considerable
part of her day--the first day of her arrival. Coming up in the machine
from the station, Sally had volunteered, amid a rain of question, comment,
revelation, and exaggeration:

"You remember Amory Blaine, of _course_. Well, he's simply mad to
see you again. He's stayed over a day from college, and he's coming
to-night. He's heard so much about you--says he remembers your eyes."

This had pleased Isabelle. It put them on equal terms, although she
was quite capable of staging her own romances, with or without advance
advertising. But following her happy tremble of anticipation, came a
sinking sensation that made her ask:

"How do you mean he's heard about me? What sort of things?"

Sally smiled. She felt rather in the capacity of a showman with her more
exotic cousin.

"He knows you're--you're considered beautiful and all that"--she paused--
"and I guess he knows you've been kissed."

At this Isabelle's little fist had clinched suddenly under the fur robe.