f paradise plumes spread back like wings on the
helmet of a viking. For the rest, she had white kid gloves, which
reached up to her elbows. Outside the glove of the left hand she wore a
bracelet; every time she stirred the stones struck fire in the
semi-darkness. Her hands were very small. Peeping out from below her
gown, the buckles on her high-heeled shoes twinkled. She was mysterious,
taunting, and strangely commanding. As she hovered there across the
threshold, a faint perfume drifted up to him like the intoxicating
romance of June rose-gardens under moonlight.

She, too, seemed to have suffered a surprise at hearing the tones in
which he had spoken. "His address! Oh, no, it wasn't Mr. Easterday I was
wanting. I only supposed---- If Mrs. Lockwood's at home, I should like
to see her."

Her voice was like a chime of contralto bells. It made him think of
Bernhardt. It imparted to the commonplaces she uttered a quite
disproportionate intensity of drama and tragic depth. The way in which
she had said, "Oh, no," reverberated in his memory as though the sound
still lingered on the air.

"I don't know at all," he commenced. Then he smiled at his confusion.
"You see I'm not used to answering doors, and Mrs. Lockwood's not quite
herself. She was very tired just now. But if you'll give me your name,
I'll----"

If he'd been left to himself, he might have succeeded in creating the
impression that he was Maisie's physician. As it was, his conscience
was spared the deception by the advent of the inevitable Porter. She
sailed up behind him with an appearance so immaculate that it would have
shed propriety on the most compromising circumstances. He instantly
stood aside to make room for her. "Porter, here's a lady enquiring
for----"

But the lady took matters into her own hands. "Mrs. Lockwood in,
Porter?"

"Why, certainly, your Ladyship."

"Then why was I shut out? Who is this gentleman who----"

The rest was lost as their voices sank. The next words he caught were
her Ladyship's, running up the scale of laughter. "Then I'm not _de
trop_! That's a blessing!"

He fell back, trying to obliterate himself, as with every sign of
deference Porter admitted her; but in crossing the hall, she had to pass
him. Scarcely pausing, she swept him with a pair of stone-gray eyes,
made mischievous for the moment with merriment. "You're no good as a
butler," she whispered. "You carry discretion too far."

To his chagrin he recognized he