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 was happening—he was being created into a different sort of a celebrity than he had been….

Presently Lydia came out of the house. “Myrtle’s all right,” she told everyone, and then she caught her breath. “I’m so glad—so glad. It would have been awful to happen at my party.” Her eyes flitted about the yard. “Where is he? Where’s Angus Burke?… If it hadn’t been for him—”

“He’s gone,” said Angus’s little friend. “He hurried away, I couldn’t make him stay.”

“Of course,” said Lydia. “He would.”

“I—won’t you tell me all about him?… I admire him. I asked him to call…. Do you suppose he’ll come?… He’s the most interesting—he’s the very finest young man I’ve met. He was so quick, so splendid—and so—so very much a gentleman.”

Lydia was conscious of a feeling of resentment toward this girl whom she had admired, almost of dislike—and she wondered why. Also there was amazement and something of chagrin. This girl, accustomed to a better society than Rainbow knew, admired Angus Burke, had asked him to call. This girl called him a gentleman, and hoped, really hoped he would come to see her! The thing was impossible. Angus Burke was not a person to whom such a thing could happen, about whom such things could be