She was seeing herself with the pearls at the next weekend party. She was conscious of the crowded sanctuary and of being the best dressed of the whole class of which she was a member.

When the time came, she went sweetly, demurely up to the front of the church and stood with just such a prayerful attitude as did her grandmother years and years before, and people whispered, “Isn’t Constance lovely? I never knew she was so serious, did you?”

Constance stood before the altar and kept her eyes upon the white-haired Dr. Grant, whom she detested, watching his lips half-fascinated, wondering if the wave in his white hair was natural, bowing her head when the prayer began, and studying the toes of two well-polished shoes and the neat creases of the cheap, dark blue serge trousers that stood next to her white suede shoes, and wondering idly who was their owner. Was the serge a bit shiny, almost shabby? That was the impression she got from her brief glance as she closed her eyes for the prayer.

The ceremony was over and they were seated for the sacrament. Constance noticed as she sat down that the man beside her was tall and had a courteous bearing. She had not noticed his name as it was called. Doubtless some newcomer since she had been away.

The solemn ceremony proceeded amid soft music from the fine organ; tender old melodies that reminded her of her childhood days; exquisite fragrance from the lilies in the chancel; blended prisms of color flung across the perfumed air from the Tiffany windows; scraps of white bread on silver plates; tiny, tinkling crystal glasses like ruby jewels passing; blood-red wine against the whiteness of the lilies in the chancel; soft, cool polish of matched pearls against the softness of her neck. It all was a lovely dream to Constance, just a picture in which the colors and setting harmonized. It meant nothing in her life, a brief incident and pearls. What did it matter if she had the pearls for her very own? She had a passing moment of wonder as she touched the tiny glass of wine to her lips. Memory flashed back to a Sunday long ago when she had wept bitterly into her grandmother’s lap that she could not have this privilege, and now here it was hers and she was reluctant. Was all life like that? She wondered. Nothing attained until desire had passed!

At last the final solemn march and passing of the mystic symbols was complete; the painful stillness, soft-music-laden, was over; the final hymn and benediction finished; the minister admonished the members to greet one another with a cordial right hand of fellowship before they left; and the organ burst forth into a triumphal Easter paean of victory.

Constance lifted up her head with a relieved breath and glanced around her. She was free now for the rest of the day. Her penance was over and the prize was upon her.

Then a voice beside and above her spoke, a pleasant, confidential voice that yet was clear above the trumpeting of the organ, with something throbbing, deep and stirring, in its lilt.

“I guess that means that we’re to greet one another, doesn’t it?” the voice asked. “We’re members of one household now, members of the Body of Christ.”

Then Constance was aware of a hand, shapely, well cared for as a woman’s, yet firm, big, strong, the hand of a real man. And it was obviously being held out to her in greeting, a kind of holy greeting, it seemed. She was suddenly aware that all the people around her were shaking hands and offering congratulations, just like a wedding reception! Heavens! Did one have to endure another ordeal also? And who was this presumptuous person who seemed determined to shake hands with her? A stranger!

She lifted haughty eyes and met the handsomest brown eyes she had ever looked into, young, friendly, pleasant eyes; and then without her own volition she found her hand folded in a strong, quick clasp.

The stranger was taking almost reverent note of the sweet line of forehead under gold hair and little tilted hat brim, lovely curve of cheek and lip and chin, the soft white neck above the lustrous pearls, and doing them homage with his glance.

“My name is Seagrave. May I know yours?” he asked with utmost courtesy.

Then Constance remembered her patrician birth, the pearls she wore so regally, the shabbiness of the blue serge trousers she had glimpsed through prayer time, and lifted her chin, stiffening visibly, and answering in a voice like a clear, lovely icicle. “I am Miss Courtland.”

“Thank you, Miss Courtland. I am glad to know you,” he said with quaint, old-time formality. “I hope we’ll meet again.”

Constance gave him a little, frozen smile and swept him an upward appraising glance.

“I’m afraid not,” she said haughtily. “I’m going back to college Tuesday.”

Their glances met for just an instant, a puzzled questioning gaze, and then her girl friends surged between them; when she looked again, wondering if she must introduce him, he was gone.

“Who’s your boyfriend, Con?” whispered Rose Acker, one of her most intimate friends. “Isn’t he perfectly stunning looking!”

But Constance only smiled and went forward to her grandmother who was waiting with proud eyes and sternly pleasant lips.

As they drove along in the car toward home, Constance looked for the stranger among the people on the pavement, but he was not anywhere among them. She wondered if she would ever see him again. He was impertinent of course, or perhaps only ignorant, she decided, but nevertheless interesting. A new type.

“Well,” said her brother, Frank, coming down the steps to fling open the car door for them when they reached home, “is the grand agony over?”

“Do you see my lovely pearls?” asked Constance quickly with a warning look at her brother as she noted the wicked twinkle in his eyes.

“Some pearls!” said the reckless youth. “Cheap at the price, I’ll say! What do I get, Grand, if I go and do the same sometime?”

But the little old lady with the keen dark eyes shut her thin lips in a firm line and spurned her grandson’s offered arm, tripping up the steps like an indignant robin, holding her black taffeta shoulders irately as she marched into the house without answering.

Chapter 2

Constance came downstairs early the next morning. She had promised to play a set of tennis with Ruddy Van Arden. She wanted to get in touch with the brightness of the morning and stretch her wings a little just to feel how good it was to be at home again.

Her father and mother were not down yet, breakfast wasn’t ready, and Frank, of course, would not even be awake.