Volume X Part 25 (1/2)

”We--we do appreciate it, mother,” urged Cora, unhappily.

”But we aren't howling successes at parties,” Dora added.

”Nonsense! You have partners to spare.” Mrs. Baldwin was plainly angry.

”No child of mine was ever a wallflower, nor ever will be. Never let me hear you say such a thing again. You would have twice the attention if you weren't always poking off by yourselves; and as it is, you have more than most girls. You frighten the men--they think you are proud. Show a little interest in them and see how pleased they will be!”

The twins looked dubious, and seized the first chance to escape. In their own room they confronted each other dismally.

”Of course they will ask us, in our own house; we won't have to sit and sit,” said Cora with a sigh.

”But it's almost worse when they ask you for that reason,” objected Dora.

”I know! I feel so sorry for them, and so apologetic. If mother would _only_ let us go and teach at Miss Browne's; then we could show we were really good for something. We shouldn't have to s.h.i.+ne at parties.”

”We shouldn't have to go to them! Come on, let's do some Latin. I want to forget the hateful thing.”

Cora got down the books and drew their chairs up to the student-lamp. ”I know I shouldn't be such a stick if I didn't have to wear low neck,” she said. ”I am always thinking about those awful collar-bones, and trying to hold my shoulders so as not to make them worse.”

”Oh, don't I know!” Dora had slipped on a soft red wrapper, and threw a blue one to her sister. When they were curled up in their big, cus.h.i.+oned chairs, they smiled appreciatively at each other.

”Isn't this nicer than any party ever invented?” they exclaimed. Dora opened her books with energy, but Cora sat musing.

”I dare say that somewhere there are parties for our kind,” she said, finally. ”Not with silly little chinless boys or popular men who are always trying to get away, but men who study and care about things--who go to Greece and dig ruins, for instance, or study sociology, and think more about one's mind than one's collar-bones.”

Dora shook her head. ”But they don't go to parties!”

”Both Mr. Morton and Mr. White do, sometimes,” Cora suggested. ”They aren't like the rest. I thought that tenement-house work they told us about was most interesting. But they would call if they wanted to,” she added.

The twins in wrappers, bending over their books, had a certain comeliness. There was even an austere beauty in their wide, high foreheads, their fine, straight dark hair, their serious gray eyes and sensitive mouths, pensive but not without humor and sweetness. But the twins in evening dress, their unwilling hair flower-crowned and bolstered into pompadours, their big-boned thinness contrasted with Amelie's plump curves, their elbows betraying the red disks of serious application, were quite another matter, and they knew it. The night of the dance they came down-stairs with solemn, dutiful faces, and lifted submissive eyes to their mother for judgment. She was looking charmingly pretty herself, carrying her thick white hair with a humorous boldness, and her smiling brown eyes were younger than their gray ones.

”Very well, twinnies! Now you look something like human girls,” she said gaily. ”Run and have a beautiful time. Ah, Amelie, you little fairy!

They will all be on their knees to you to-night. Where is Enid?”

”Nowhere near dressed, and she won't hurry,” Amelie explained. ”Oh, I am so excited, I shall die! What if no one asks me to dance!”

”Silly!” Mrs. Baldwin laughed. ”I am only afraid of your dancing yourself to death. Ah, Mrs. Merritt, how good of you to come with your dear girls! And Mr. Merritt--this is better than I dared hope.”

The rooms filled rapidly. Enid, after one languid waltz, disappeared with Harry and was not seen again till supper. Amelie flew from partner to partner, pouring streams of vivacious talk into patient masculine ears. The twins were dutifully taken out in turn and unfailingly brought back. Both Mr. White and Mr. Morton came, serious young men who danced little, and looked on more as if the affair were a problem in sociology than an entertainment. There were plenty of men, for Mrs. Baldwin's entertainments had a reputation in the matter of supper, music, and floors.

”After you've worked through the family, you can have a ripping old time,” Cora heard one youth explain to another; a moment later he stood in front of her, begging the honor of a waltz. She felt no resentment; her sympathies were all with him. She looked up with gentle seriousness.

”You needn't, you know,” she said. ”Dora and I don't really expect it--we understand.” He looked so puzzled that she added: ”I overheard you just now, about 'working through the family.'”

He grew distressfully red and stammered wildly. Cora came at once to his rescue.

”Really, it's all right. We don't like parties, ourselves; only it is hard on mother to have such sticks of daughters, so we do our best. But we never mind when people don't ask us. Sometimes we almost wish they wouldn't.”

The youth was trying desperately to collect himself. ”What _do_ you like, then?” he managed to ask.

”Oh, books, and the country, and not having to be introduced to people.”