THE doll, Sarah, serene and trim on top of the bookcase in Sally's room, looked down upon a devastating disorder.
Sally, flung among her pillows, showed a wild mop of copper-colored curls. The silver dress which she had discarded hung precariously on the back of a chair, and small, silk garments lay like pink snow everywhere.
From among her pillows Sally was saying: "I've got to get up, Sarah. I've got to get up."
Sarah's eyes seemed to hold a calm rebuke. "I know," Sally agreed, "you don't approve of me. Well, I don't approve of myself. But what do you expect? I'm like the rest. They all stayed up, didn't they? Until morning?"
Sarah did not open her lips, yet Sally had an impression of speech, "All except Hildegarde."
"Hildegarde? Well, give her time, Sarah. And anyhow she's a prig. Oh, yes, she is. She's the kind that used to be in the old novels—the queen can do no wrong, and all that. And men still fall for it—Crispin and—Merry."
Her voice held on that. She dropped back on her pillows, turned her face to the wall, pulled the rose-
