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.—Well, my dear, how d'ye do? I thought I'd run over and cheer you up a little for to-night.

.—You're ever so good. I'm awfully nervous.

.—Oh, nonsense, you needn't be. How many bouquets so far?

.—Only eighteen.

.—It's rather early yet—from five to seven you'll get plenty.

.—I do hope so. Clara Newcome said she had thirty-nine last week! I shall die of mortification if I don't have as many as that!

.—You needn't worry! In any event, your début will be more brilliant than hers.

.—Oh, do you think so?

.—Yes, indeed. It handicaps a girl fearfully to come out with an elder sister, not even engaged.

.—I suppose it does.

.—Oh, my, yes! Then your family connection is so large. You'll have plenty of dinners, teas, and routs given for you, and that brings the men to the coming-out party, you know.

.—Does it?

.—Yes, indeed. They'll be out in full force to-night. On general principles, a girl's début is apt to be successful. You see the girls all come to talk sweet to you, to size you up, as the men say, and the married belles come and pet you to discover how dangerous you're going to be, and, with the male contingent you're sure to have, there's really nothing to fear to-night.

.—You quite reassure me.

.—You'll wear white, of course?

.—Oh, yes. White tulle and lilies of the valley. Simple, you know, but just too sweet for any use.

.—I suppose so. That's your rôle just now—sweet simplicity. By the way, are you going in for anything?

.—Going in for anything?

.—Yes; are you going to be horsey or musical or literary or athletic or æsthetic, or any of that sort of thing?

.—Oh, I don't know. Ought I?

.—Well, no; I don't believe I would. I did, but not for long. Dickey Hunt was leading all the germans when I came out, and he was the best parti of the winter, so I went in for dancing. He married Nell Carew at Easter; and, at any rate, it's too warm in the spring season to dance much, so I rather dropped any specialty.

.—I just love to dance.

.—Yes, I know; "buds" all dote on dancing—it's when you get along in your second season that you like to " sit it out " on the stairs and look down at the dancers and sigh a little, and remember when you were as enthusiastic as "those happy girls inside." That's awfully taking.

.—To whom?

.—Oh, you goosey. To the man who is sitting it out with you, of course.

.—Oh, yes. But about going in for something—you really don't think you would, then?

.—Oh, no; not this year, anyway. There don't seem to be as many sets as there used to be. You have to know everything a little, nowadays, and nothing very well.

.—That's a comfort.

.—Isn't it! Why, I talked half an hour the other evening on chiar' oscuro, and I can't even spell the word.

.—How ever did you do it?

.—Oh, I let him talk and tell me all about it, just listening, you know, in an awfully interested little way, and occasionally making a comment or asking a question that I stole directly from him.

.—But didn't he suspect you?

.—Not he, indeed! He told Pinkie Talbot the same evening he was surprised at my thorough knowledge of the technique of art. That is our compensation.

.—What?

.—Oh, to get on, you know, and impress the men on so little capital. But I really must go.

.—Oh, don't yet. I've lots to ask you. Do you know I'm afraid I shan't know what to talk about to-night.

.—Oh, yes, you will. Did you see the Greek play?

.—No.

.—Oh, well, that's old, at any rate, but you'll find plenty to say in answering compliments, and that sort of thing.

.—Oh, I hope so.

.—Well, good-by. Oh, do you know I've got an awfully fetching new gown, but I'm going to be magnanimous, and not wear it to-night.

.—You're awfully good.

.—Am I not? And now, really, good-by. I'll see you to-night.

.—Oh, yes. Well, good-by, if you must go.

.—Good-by. It's awfully comfortable to have the worry all over and be engaged.

.—I suppose so. Good-by.