It was said by the uncharitable that the secret of the lady's youth was

the fact that she always surrounded herself with young people, their

pleasure, interests, entertainments were hers; she never permitted

herself to be identified with older people.

To-day, besides several young men who had been out of college for a

year or two, she had her husband's two nieces, the Misses Tremont,

young women well known in Boston's inner circles, her own daughter, a

Mrs. Endicott, a widow, and a very beautiful young girl whom she

introduced as "My cousin, Miss Moore."

Miss Moore was the recipient of more attention than she could well

handle. Mrs. Tremont's cavaliers tried to inveigle her into betting

gloves and bon-bons; they reserved their wittiest replica for her, they

were her ardent allies in all the merry badinage with which their party

whiled away the time waiting for the game to begin. Miss Moore was

getting enough attention to turn the heads of three girls.

At least, that was what her chaperone concluded as she skilfully

concealed her dissatisfaction with a radiant smile. She liked girls to

achieve social success when they were under her wing--it was the next

best thing to scoring success on her own account. But, it was quite a

different matter to invite a poor relation half out of charity, half

out of pity, and then have her outshine one's own daughter, and one's

nieces--the latter being her particular protégés--girls whom she hoped

to assist toward brilliant establishments. The thought was a

disquieting one, the men of their party had been making idiots of

themselves over the girl ever since they left Boston; it was all very

well to be kind to one's poor kin--but charity began at home when there

were girls who had been out three seasons! What was it, that made the

men lose their heads like so many sheep? She adjusted her lorgnette

and again took an inventory of the girl's appearance. It was eminently

satisfactory even when viewed from the critical standard of Mrs.

Standish Tremont. A delicately oval face, with low smooth brow, from

which the night-black hair rippled in softly crested waves and clung

about the temples in tiny circling ringlets, delicate as the faintest

shading of a crayon pencil. Heavily fringed lids that lent mysterious

depths to the great brown eyes that were sorrowful beyond their years.

A mouth made for kisses--a perfect Cupid's bow; in color, the red of

the pomegranate--such was Anna Moore, the great lady's young kinswoman,

who was getting her first glimpse of the world this autumn afternoon.




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