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During the pause after the first game she petitioned Mrs. Jackson Elder, “Don't you think we ought to get up another bob-sled party soon?”

“It's so cold when you get dumped in the snow,” said Mrs. Elder, indifferently.

“I hate snow down my neck,” volunteered Mrs. Dave Dyer, with an unpleasant look at Carol and, turning her back, she bubbled at Rita Simons, “Dearie, won't you run in this evening? I've got the loveliest new Butterick pattern I want to show you.”

Carol crept back to her chair. In the fervor of discussing the game they ignored her. She was not used to being a wallflower. She struggled to keep from oversensitiveness, from becoming unpopular by the sure method of believing that she was unpopular; but she hadn't much reserve of patience, and at the end of the second game, when Ella Stowbody sniffily asked her, “Are you going to send to Minneapolis for your dress for the next soiree — heard you were,” Carol said “Don't know yet” with unnecessary sharpness.

She was relieved by the admiration with which the jeune fille Rita Simons looked at the steel buckles on her pumps; but she resented Mrs. Howland's tart demand, “Don't you find that new couch of yours is too broad to be practical?” She nodded, then shook her head, and touchily left Mrs. Howland to get out of it any meaning she desired. Immediately she wanted to make peace. She was close to simpering in the sweetness with which she addressed Mrs Howland: “I think that is the prettiest display of beef-tea your husband has in his store.”