ou tell him?"

"Aren't you rushing things a little?" Beatrix inquired languidly.
"Please do remember that I only met Mr. Lorimer at the Horse Show, and
that it is three weeks to Lent."

"That's nothing," Sally replied flatly, but flippantly. "You subjugated
Eric Stanford in half that time, and his gray matter has been in a
pulpy condition ever since."

"I didn't know it."

"About his gray matter?"

"Oh, that is congenital trouble. I mean I didn't know that I had
subjugated him. Besides, that is different. He was Bobby Dane's chum,
and we took him into the family."

"Took him in all over," Sally drawled.

Beatrix's eyes flashed. There were things she would not say to Sally;
there were also things which Sally could not say to her.

"I am so sorry," she said, as she rose; "but I must get ready for Mrs.
Stanley's recital. How does it happen you aren't going?"

"For the most ignominious of reasons. I'm not bidden. Mrs. Stanley and I
were on a committee together, once upon a time. We squabbled over some
amateur theatricals, and she has cut my acquaintance ever since. I
always did say that there is nothing like amateur theatricals for
bringing out all the worst vices of humanity. If a Shakespearian revival
ever reaches the heavenly host, Gabriel and Michael will have to play
Othello and Iago turn and turn about, to prevent ill-feeling. Beatrix?"

"Well?"

"What do you honestly think of Mr. Lorimer?"

Beatrix hesitated. Then she faced her friend.

"That he is the most interesting man we have met, this season."

"That's not saying any too much. Still, it is an admission. Are you
going to marry him?"

"He hasn't asked me."

"But he will."

"How do you know?"

"I do know."

"I'm not so sure of it." Beatrix laughed nervously.

"But if he does?"

"I--I'm not so sure of that, either."

"Beatrix! Why not?"

Beatrix untied the long ribbons which belted her gown, and stood drawing
them slowly through and through her fingers. Sally leaned back in her
deep chair and watched her friend keenly, mercilessly. She and Beatrix
had fenced long enough; it was time for the direct thrust. Sidney
Lorimer was the most available man on that winter's carpet. Moreover,
for weeks he had been a patient follower in the wake of Beatrix Dane.
Beatrix might be as impenetrable as she chose; but Sally knew that,
during the past week, she had been reading the headings of certain
suppressed chapters in Lorimer's history, and that t