THE THRESHOLD She awoke tired; she had scarcely closed her eyes that night.

The fresh odour of roses filled her room when her maid arrived with morning gifts from Kathleen and Scott.
She lay abed until noon.

They started dressing her about three.

After that the day became unreal to her.
* * * * * Manhattan was conventionally affable to Geraldine Seagrave, also somewhat curious to see what she looked like.

Fifth Avenue and the neighbouring side streets were jammed with motors and carriages on the bright January afternoon that Geraldine made her bow, and the red and silver drawing-rooms, so famous a generation ago, were packed continually.
What people saw was a big, clumsy house expensively overdecorated in the appalling taste of forty years ago, now screened by forests of palms and vast banks of flowers; and they saw a number of people popularly identified with the sort of society which newspapers delight to revere; and a few people of real distinction; and a young girl, noticeably pale, standing beside Kathleen Severn and receiving the patronage of dowagers and beaux, and the impulsive clasp of fellowship from fresh-faced young girls and nice-looking, well-mannered young fellows.
The general opinion seemed to be that Geraldine Seagrave possessed all the beauty which rumour had attributed to her as her right by inheritance, but the animation of her clever mother was lacking.