m as a child, but as he had found her detestable
in her flapperhood, and been at no pains to conceal his attitude, she
had taken a violent dislike to him. Last night he had deliberately
flicked her on the raw.

He was not long in doubt. She had returned his perfunctory bow with a
curt nod, and after a brief interval--during which she appeared to be
making a communication that was received with joyous hilarity--she left
her seat and ran across the room. She might have been in her own house
for all the notice she took of the restaurant's other guests.

Clavering rose and grimly awaited the onslaught. Even the waiters were
staring, but for the moment only at the flashing little figure whose
cheeks matched to a shade the American Beauty rose of her wisp of a
gown.

Her big black eyes were sparkling wickedly, her vivid little mouth wore
a twist that can only be described as a grin. She had come for her
revenge. No doubt of that.

She bore down on him, and shook his unresponsive hand heartily. "I've
been telling them how dear and noble you were last night, dear Mr.
Clavering, just like a real uncle, or what any one would expect of one
of granny's pets. No doubt you saved my life and honor, and I want to
tell the world." Her crisp clear voice was pitched in G. It carried
from end to end of the silent room.

"Would that I were your uncle! Won't you sit down? I believe that you
have not met Madame Zattiany."

Miss Oglethorpe had not cast a glance at her victim's companion,
assuming her to be some writing person; although he did once in a while
take out Anne Goodrich or Marian Lawrence: old girls--being all of
twenty-four--in whom she took no interest whatever.

She half turned her head with a barely perceptible nod. The tail of
her eye was arrested. She swung round and stared, her mouth open. For
the moment she was abashed; whatever else she may have submerged, her
caste instinct remained intact and for a second she had the unpleasant
sensation of standing at the bar of her entire class. But she
recovered immediately. _Grandes dames_ were out of date. Even her
mother had worn her skirts to her knees a short time since. What fun
to "show this left-over." And then her spiteful naughtiness was
magnified by anger. Madame Zattiany had inclined her head graciously,
but made no attempt to conceal her amusement.

"Yes, I'll sit down. Thanks." She produced a cigarette and lit it.
"Granny's got a lot of anc