ises are Mrs. Beaufort's."

Madge, who knew the whole alphabet of smart costumers, was aware of the
sophisticated perfection of that fluff of jade green tulle. The touch of
gold at the girdle, the flash of gold for the petticoat. She guessed the
price, a stiff one, and wondered that Mary should speak of it casually
as "one of Becky's."

"The turquoises are the perfect touch."

"That was Becky's idea. It seemed queer to me at first, blue with the
green. But she said if I just wore this band around my hair, and the
ring. And it does seem right, doesn't it?"

"It is perfect. What is Miss Bannister wearing?"

"Silver and white--lace, you know. The new kind, like a cobweb--with
silver underneath--and a rose-colored fan--and pearls. You should see
her pearls, Miss MacVeigh. Tell her about them, Truxton."

"Well, once upon a time they belonged to a queen. Becky's
great-grandfather on the Meredith side was a diplomat in Paris, and he
bought them, or so the story runs. Becky only wears a part of them. The
rest are in the family vaults."

Madge listened, and showed no surprise. But that account of lace and
silver, and priceless pearls did not sound in the least like the new
little girl about whom George had, in the few times that she had seen
him of late, been so silent.

"If only Flora would get well, and let me leave this beastly hole," had
been the burden of his complaint.

"I thought you liked it."

"It is well enough for a time."

"What about the new little girl?"

He was plainly embarrassed, but bluffed it out. "I wish you wouldn't ask
questions."

"I wish you wouldn't be--rude--Georgie-Porgie."

"I hate that name, Madge. Any man has a right to be rude when a woman
calls him 'Georgie-Porgie.'"

"So that's it? Well, now run along. And please don't come again until
you are nice--and smiling."

"Oh, look here, Madge."

"Run along----"

"But there isn't any place to run."

Laughter lurked in her eyes. "Oh, Georgie-Porgie--for once in your life
can't you run away?"

"Do you think you are funny?"

"Perhaps not. Smile a little, Georgie."

"How can anybody smile, with everybody sick?"

"Oh, no, we're not. We are better. I am so glad that Flora is
improving."

"Oscar thinks it is because that little old man prayed for her. Fancy
Oscar----"

Madge meditated. "Yet it might be, you know, George. There are things in
that old man's petition that transcend all our philosophy."

"Oh, you're as bad as Os