. I
believe I have a demon that inhabits my vocal cords upon occasion. If he
does get hold of me, I am merely a machine in his hands. When I become
my own manager again, I am never quite sure what I may have been doing."

"Something very good, to-night. But where is Mr. Arlt?"

Thayer's face darkened.

"Mrs. Lloyd Avalons neglected to invite him," he replied quietly.

Lorimer's lip curled.

"If that isn't beyond the dreams of snobbishness, Thayer! Why did you
come to her old party, then?"

"Because I thought it would be too petty to stay away."

"I would be petty, then. But, as far as that goes, Arlt's ancestors were
gentlemen, when hers were shovelling gravel for a dollar a day. American
democracy runs in strange grooves. Thayer, I am going to leave Beatrix
in your care for a few minutes. I promised Ned Carpenter I would see him
in the smoking-room, to make a date for his yachting cruise."

Thayer looked after him with a certain anxiety which clouded his gray
eyes and found a reflection in the face of his companion. The cloud
remained, although their talk went on as if nothing were amiss. In fact,
nothing was amiss; it was only that their nerves, jarred by Arlt's
failure, were looking for disaster upon every hand. For the time being,
each bead seemed tipped with its cross. Both felt it; both were loath to
acknowledge the feeling by so much as a look.

Suddenly Thayer roused himself.

"Lorimer has been detained, Miss Dane, and we both are growing hungry.
May I take you to the dining-room?"

Side by side, they crossed the floor, now almost deserted, and reached
the door of the dining-room whence came a confused noise of buzzing
tongues and clattering dishes. Then, above all else, Lorimer's voice met
their ears, a merry, laughing voice, but strangely thick as regarded its
consonants.

"An' so, 's I was shayin', we wen' to Mory's, one ni', an' there was
thish man--"

Some unaccountable impulse made him raise his eyes just then. They fell
full upon Beatrix standing in the doorway, with Thayer at her side.

CHAPTER NINE

Beatrix's library was full of women, when Lorimer put in a tardy
appearance, the day after the Fresh Air Fund concert. A dozen little
tables littered with cards were pushed together in one corner, and the
tinkling of china and the hum of conversation betrayed the fact that
whist had given place to a more congenial method of passing the time.
Modern womanhood plays whist almost with