Never had her shining hair been braided so glossily, or coaxed into waving more prettily about her forehead; never had the simple etceteras of her dress been more studiously selected and more carefully put together.

Looking in the glass when all was done, she had been fain to confess that she really did look nice for once, though she reproached herself immediately afterward in severest terms for the unpardonable vanity of the thought, and made a little grimace at her own image to effectually dispel the illusion.

What could it ever matter how she looked?
And particularly how could it matter when Gerald was by,--Gerald, who possessed that rare and enviable gift of always looking her best?
So Phebe put the subject of her looks entirely away from her mind, and leaned back on the sofa, her hands folded idly in her lap, feeling perfectly content with the passing moment, and asking nothing from the future but that it might be always "now." What more could she want?
The room held her three dearest friends in the world,--Gerald, Soeur Angelique, and Mr.Halloway;--of course one should always put ladies before gentlemen even only in thought.

How handsome Gerald looked as she stood with her head slightly bent forward, listening to Mrs.
Whittridge.

If Gerald did not choose to listen, no one could ever force her to lend an ear.