CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Brownings’ yard was colorful with paper lanterns; the house had that gala, hospitable appearance which comes from abundance of light. Carpets were spread on the grass and chairs and benches were scattered here and there according to Lydia Canfield’s taste in such matters. Already the young folks were arriving, stiffly, primly, starched and brushed—bashfully formal at first before the shell ice of holiday decorum was broken. The Trueman boys were earliest to appear, followed quickly by others, known to us in former days. Sammy Hammond escorted Myrtle Cuyler; chubby Walter Pratt puffed in alone. The Bowen twins made their identical appearance, and Harold Cuyler—then scores of others. Young Malcolm Crane, not yet returned to college after his summer vacation, was among the latest, for his toilet was a matter Mal was likely to tarry over. Each guest carried his present for the hostess, and each stood by with ill-concealed impatience to see her open it and to hear her exclamation of delight.
Lydia was excited, in a very fever of enjoy-
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