“You’ll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that. I wouldn’t Meg; your mother doesn’t like it, you know,” he whispered, leaning over her chair, as Ned turned to refill her glass, and Fisher stooped to pick up her fan.

“I’m not Meg, tonight; I’m ‘a doll,’ who does all sorts of crazy things. Tomorrow I shall put away my ‘fuss and feathers,’ and be desperately good again,” she answered, with an affected little laugh.

“Wish tomorrow was here, then,” muttered Laurie, walking off, ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.

Meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did; after supper she undertook the German, and blundered through it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that scandalized Laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture. But he got no chance to deliver it, for Meg kept away from him till he came to say good night.

“Remember!” she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had already begun.