But if—­but if it were her fortune to win the affections of this man, to take her place, here among her old friends, as their leader and head, to entertain in the old house with the cupola, under the plumy maple and locust trees—?  If Teddy might grow to a happy boyhood, here with Sally’s children, and friendly, gentle little Ruth Frost might find a real mother in her father’s young wife—?

Martie’s blood danced at the thought.  She hardly saw Cliff’s substantial figure and kindly face for the glamour of definite advantages that surrounded him.  She would be rich, rich enough to do anything and everything for Sally’s children, for instance.  And what pleasure and pride such a marriage would bring to Lydia, and Pa, and Sally!  And how stupefied Len would be, to have the ugly duckling suddenly show such brilliant plumage!

She thought of Rodney and Rose.  Rodney was getting stout now, he was full of platitudes, heavy and a little tiresome.  Rose was still birdlike, still sure that what she had and did and said and desired were the sum of earthly good.  A smile twitched Martie’s sober mouth as she thought of Rose’s congratulations.

Rose would give her a linen shower, with delicious damp little sandwiches, and maple mousse, or a dainty luncheon with silk-clad, flushed women laughing about the table.  And Martie would join the club—­be its president, some day—­

Meanwhile, once more she must wait.  A woman’s life was largely waiting.  She had waited on Rodney’s young pleasure, years ago; waited for Wallace, at rehearsals, or at night; waited for news of Golda; waited for Teddy; and for Wallace again and again; waited for Pa’s letter and the check.  Patience, Martie said to her eager heart.

Bright, sisterly, Rose presently came into the office, to put a plump little arm about Martie, and give her a laughing kiss.  Rose had discovered that Martie was at home again, and wanted her to come to dinner.

It was one of many little signs of the impending event.  Martie had not been blind to the whispering and watching all about her.  Fanny had subtly altered her attitude, even Sally was changed.  Now came Rose, to prove that the matter was reaching a point where it must be taken seriously.

Martie went to the dinner, a little ashamed of herself for doing so.  Rose had ignored her for more than a year.  But just now she could not afford to ignore Rose.

She was ashamed of Lydia’s innocent pride in the invitation.  Sally, too, who came to the old house to watch Martie dress, had the old attitude.  There was an unexpressed feeling in the air that Martie was stepping up, and stepping away from them.  The younger sister, in her filmy black, with her bright hair severely banded, and her quiet self-possession, had some element in her that they were content to lack.

Lydia’s red, clean little hands were still faintly odorous of chopped onion, as she moved them from hook to hook.  Sally wore an old plaid coat that hung open and showed her shabby little serge gown.  The very room, where these girls had struggled with so many inadequate garments, where they had pressed and pieced and turned a hundred gowns, spoke to Martie of her own hungry girlhood.