I was, perhaps, the plainest girl in the room that night. I was also thehappiest—up to one o’clock. Then my whole world crumbled, or, at least,suffered an eclipse. Why and how, I am about to relate.
I was not made for love. This I had often said to myself; very often of late.In figure I am too diminutive, in face far too unbeautiful, for me to cherishexpectations of this nature. Indeed, love had never entered into my plan oflife, as was evinced by the nurse’s diploma I had just gained after three yearsof hard study and severe training.
I was not made for love. But if I had been; had I been gifted with height,regularity of feature, or even with that eloquence of expression which redeemsall defects save those which savor of deformity, I knew well whose eye I shouldhave chosen to please, whose heart I should have felt proud to win.
This knowledge came with a rush to my heart—(did I say heart? I shouldhave said understanding, which is something very different)—when, at theend of the first dance, I looked up from the midst of the bevy of girls by whomI was surrounded and saw Anson Durand’s fine figure emerging from that quarterof the hall where our host and hostess stood to receive their guests. His eyewas roaming hither and thither and his manner was both eager and expectant.Whom was he seeking? Some one of the many bright and vivacious girls about me,for he turned almost instantly our