. It was one which she had tucked into
her trunk in view of foul weather. It was a hideous thing made from
two old gowns. It had a garish blue tunic reaching well below the
hips and a black skirt bordered with blue. Martha had had it made
herself from a pattern after long study of the fashion plates in a
Sunday newspaper and the result, although startling, still half
convinced her. It was only after she had seen all the members of the
Zenith Club seated and had gazed at their costumes, that she realised
that she had made a worse mistake than that of the night before. To
begin with, the day was very warm and her gown heavy and clumsy. The
other ladies were arrayed in lovely lingeries or light silks and
laces. The Zenith Club was exceedingly well dressed on that day.
Martha sat in her place beside her hostess and her face looked like a
sulky child's. Her eye-lids were swollen, her pouting lips dropped at
the corners. She stiffened her chin until it became double. Margaret
was inwardly perturbed but she concealed it. The programme went on
with the inevitable singing by Miss MacDonald and Mrs. Wells, the
playing by Mrs. Jack Evarts, the recitation by Sally Anderson.
Margaret had not ventured to omit those features. Then, Mrs.
Sturtevant read in a trembling voice a paper on Emerson. Then
Margaret sprang her mines. She rose and surveyed her audience with
smiling impressiveness. "Ladies," she said, and there was an
immediate hush, "Ladies, I have the pleasure, the exceeding pleasure
of presenting you to my guest, Miss Martha Wallingford, the author of
_Hearts Astray_. She will now speak briefly to you upon her motive in
writing and her method of work." There was a soft clapping of hands.
Margaret sat down. She was quite pale. Annie Eustace regarded her
wonderingly. What had happened to her dear Margaret?

The people waited. Everybody stared at Miss Martha Wallingford who
had written that great seller, _Hearts Astray_. Martha Wallingford
sat perfectly still. Her eyes were so downcast that they gave the
appearance of being closed. Her pretty face looked red and swollen.
Everybody waited. She sat absolutely still and made no sign except
that of her obstinate face of negation. Margaret bent over her and
whispered. Martha did not even do her the grace of a shake of the
head.

Everybody waited again. Martha Wallingford sat so still that she gave
the impression of a doll made without speaking apparatus. It did not
seem as if she