ession.

"Who is that winning child with red hair?" she enquired, nodding
informal recognition to the other guests, whom she already knew.
"Don't tell me," she added, elevating a quizzing glass and staring at
Dulcie, "that this engaging infant has a history already! It isn't
possible, with that April smile in her child eyes!"

"You bet she hasn't a history, Elsena," said Barres, frowning;
"and I'll see that she doesn't begin one as long as she's in my
neighbourhood."

Corot Mandel, who had been heavily inspecting Dulcie through his
monocle, now stood twirling it by its frayed and greasy cord:

"I could do something for her--unless she's particularly yours,
Barres?" he suggested. "I've seldom seen a better type in New York."

"You idiot. Don't you recognise her? She's Dulcie Soane! You could
have picked her yourself if you'd had any flaire."

"Oh, hell," murmured Mandel, disgusted. "And I thought I possessed
flaire. Your private property, I suppose?" he added sourly.

"Absolutely. Keep off!"

"Watch me," murmured Corot Mandel, with a wry face, as they moved
forward to join the others and be presented to the little guest of the
evening.

Westmore came in at the same moment--a short, blond, vigorous young
man, who knew everybody except Thessalie, and proceeded to smash the
ice in characteristic fashion:

"Dulcie! You beautiful child! How are you, duckey?"--catching her by
both hands,--"a little salute for Nunky? Yes?"--kissing her heartily
on both cheeks. "I've a gift for you in my overcoat pocket. We'll
sneak out and get it after dinner!" He gave her hands a hearty
squeeze, turned to the others: "I ought to have been Miss Soane's
godfather. So I appointed myself as such. Where are the cocktails,
Garry?"

Road-to-ruin cocktails were served--frosted orange juice for Dulcie.
Everybody drank her health. Then Aristocrates gracefully condescended
to announce dinner. And Barres took out Dulcie, her arm resting light
as a snowflake on his sleeve.

There were flowers everywhere in the dining-room; table, buffet,
curtains, lustres were gay with early blossoms, exhaling the haunting
scent of spring.

"Do you like it, Dulcie?" he whispered.

She merely turned and looked at him, quite unable to speak, and he
laughed at her brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks, and, dropping his
right hand, squeezed hers.

"It's your party, Sweetness--all yours! You must have a good time
every minute!" And he turned, still smiling, to