The Goddess Girl
was on the terrace gathering roses for the Goddess Girl.
The next day I went to town to see Drusilla, who was staying with an aunt. In a month we were to be married, and this aunt, luckily affluent, and bewitched by the little bride-elect, was playing fairy godmother to some purpose, for never a Cinderella was poorer than Drusilla, the parson's youngest daughter. Anne, the eldest, had money, it seemed, to spend upon her trousseau, but Anne was careful. She was, as Georgie had said, a good manager, and by foresight and thrift, somehow, she had saved.
That afternoon I dragged Drusilla away from her dressmakers and took her up the river from Twickenham. She sat on the scarlet cushions and beamed at me. Round and dimpled and merry—no Goddess Girl could compare with her in my eyes. But this is not Drusilla's story. And Georgie was on my mind still.
"Sometimes," she said presently, "when you forget me, and where you
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