“Are those tickets for that ball?” asked Mary.

“Rather! One for you and one for me. You will come, won’t you, Mary?” cried Malcolm.

“The annual ball at the Corinthian,” repeated Mary stupidly. More memories of old times—times she had tried to forget—were conjured up. Her eyes lighted. “Oh, what fun!”

“Isn’t it? On Thursday, Mary, and we’ll dine at that nice little place I found last night. You will dine with me, won’t you?”

“It’s awfully kind of you, Malcolm.” Her eyes had clouded again. “I’m—I’m afraid I can’t, though. Get someone else.”

His face fell.

“You can't? Oh, I say! Why can’t you? Are you doing something else? Can’t you possibly manage it?”

She smiled crookedly.

“I can’t go with you because I haven’t anything to wear,” she said honestly.

Janet sprang suddenly out of her chair.

“Yes, you have, yes, you have!” she cried. “The shawl!”

Even Malcolm was dubious.

“I don’t quite see how you can go to a dance in a shawl,” he began.

“Nor I,” said Mary.

Janet pushed Malcolm to the door.

"It isn’t an ordinary shawl, idiot! Mary will go on Thursday, and you’ll go now. Shut up, Mary, I've got a wonderful idea. Go away, Malcolm. I promise you that not only will Mary go to the Corinthian, but she’ll be one of the best-dressed girls in the room. Go away!”

“You’re mad,” said Mary, when Malcolm had been hustled out of the house. “The shawl’s all right, of course, but what about my dress?”

“The shawl is your dress!” proclaimed Janet, dragging it from its drawer. “The groundwork is black, so you can wear your old black satin shoes. And—and you’ll clasp it on one shoulder with a crimson rose, and it’ll be draped over the other. Oh, gorgeous!”

“Do you really think it could be managed?” asked Mary, taking off her skirt. “Let's try!”

IV.

MALCOLM gasped when he saw Mary on Thursday evening. Then he gave a long-drawn, admiring whistle, and said: “By Jove!”

“All Janet’s doing, the dear thing,” said Mary.

Janet had coaxed the shawl into Spanish lines. It was draped over one shoulder, but left the other bare. The heavy fringe fell about Mary's ankles; a dark crimson rose was in her black hair.

They dined at a little restaurant in Soho, where the waiters all wore white aprons and shouted unintelligible Italian orders down to the chef, and where one could have the most perfect French omelettes.

They drove to the Corinthian in a taxi, reckless all at once, and as she entered the brightly lighted ballroom it seemed to Mary that years had rolled back and she was once more “the beautiful Miss Nugent.” The orchestra was playing a fox-trot; Mary’s feet began to move. She slid into Malcolm’s arms, and they danced.

“It’s three years since I danced,” Mary said. “I’m out of date.”

“Rot!” said Malcolm. “Not a bit of it!”

For over an hour they danced, almost without a pause; then Malcolm remembered that he was thirsty, and that Mary must surely be thirsty too. He took her to an alcove and left her seated on a sofa while he went to collect refreshments.