keenly conscious, too, of the girl she had always been before on occasions of this sort, as she had strolled by just such intimate little groups as she now miraculously found herself one of, she and her mother taking in what details of exciting preparations as they could, in a glance or two, or covert backward look. Laurel felt sorrier for that girl on this happy morning, she thought, than she ever had before.
Now, down the long pier that stretched out into the lake from the lawn in front of the hotel drifted other fragments of rainbow, other groups of two-and-three girls with arms linked; and among them occasionally a boy or two—tanned, lean, loose-knit, tough-muscled, dressed in light trousers and soft shirts—typical American college boys. There was a whole rollicking bunch of them behind the last trio of girls. By the time "the crowd" had all collected, the pier was as noisy as an ivy-covered wall full of sparrows on the first sunny day of spring.
Laurel and the two girls beside her jumped up and joined the general chatter. Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Grosvenor, the two chaperons for the day's festivities, leisurely approaching the bevy could catch bits and snatches of characteristic conversation.
"Gorgeous day! Good-looking sweater, my dear! One exactly like it in henna. Last one in the dining-room—perfectly stunning! Absolutely! Crazy about that color."
Laurel didn't contribute much to the staccatoed exclamations, but her eyes shone, and her cheeks were bright.
"Did you ever see any one quite as lovely as Lau-
