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 “I’ll go away as soon as I’m twenty-one,” she told herself. “I’ll go a long ways—to Europe. I’ll visit Aunt Margaret in Paris….”

It was in this state of mind that Lydia came to Myrtle’s party, which, as such parties inevitably do, divided into couples and groups, carrying their chairs here and there; some, lover-like, seeking an obvious seclusion, knowing they were expected to do so; others walking about to form little knots which broke up only to reform again of different constituents. Throughout the early stages of the evening young Malcolm Crane maneuvered to draw Lydia away from the others. He had come determined to make a last effort to win her for himself—and, until he could put his fortune once more to the test, he was silent, taciturn, preoccupied…. Had not Lydia’s mind been full of other and more compelling matters she would not have permitted herself to be drawn away where Crane could be troublesome again—but her thoughts were troubled by her own problem; her eyes constantly, and against her will, were following Angus Burke…. She was unhappy.

“Lydia,” Malcolm said with unaccustomed directness, “I have asked you twice before to marry me. I have told you how much I—want you… how much I will always want you….” He stopped, for Lydia was looking at him