me under his thumb. But he'll take from you what he wouldn't take from me. Hildegarde, I can see in you my buckler and shield against the assaults of tyranny."
The next morning was spent in getting the delicate feminine belongings which were to form the basis of Hildegarde's wardrobe.
"This afternoon we'll have a try at hats and shoes and dresses," Miss Anne promised. "You won't mind some white things for house and evenings, will you? I shall telephone Louise to have them ready."
The two of them were having lunch in a tea-room on Charles Street. Miss Anne seemed to know everybody, but she did not introduce Hildegarde to the people who came up to the table.
"I simply haven't the courage," she confessed frankly, "to spring Louis' daughter on them here. When I get you out to Round Hill, I'll write little notes to everybody, and they will gradually dribble out to look you over. But here—c'est impossible."
The people that Miss Anne knew seemed to Hildegarde to have a sort of sharpness about them. She couldn't think of any other word. They were all so clear-cut in speech and looks. The clothes of the women were so expensively simple, and their sentences so brief. And the men all had such stiff, straight backs, like Meriweather, and moved among the tables with a grace which seemed incredible when she thought of the masculine awkwardness of her provincial friends. All except Crispin. He was not awkward. Yet, for the first time, she began to wonder how Crispin would look against this background, instead of the back-
