an
talking, leading from his wife's success toward his own, until Wilbur
realised himself as dazzled.

He did not notice what Von Rosen noticed, because he had kept his
attention upon the girl, that Annie Eustace had turned deadly pale
when Margaret had begun her reading and that Alice Mendon who was
seated beside her had slipped an arm around her and quietly and
unobtrusively led her out of the room. Von Rosen thought that Miss
Eustace must have turned faint because of the heat, and was conscious
of a distinct anxiety and disappointment. He had, without directly
acknowledging it to himself, counted upon walking home with Annie
Eustace, but yet he hoped that she might return, that she had not
left the home. When the refreshments were served, he looked for her,
but Annie was long since at Alice Mendon's house in her room. Alice
had hurried her there in her carriage.

"Come home with me, dear," she had whispered, "and we can have a talk
together. Your people won't expect you yet."

Therefore, while Karl von Rosen, who had gone to this annual meeting
of the Zenith Club for the sole purpose of walking home with Annie,
waited, the girl sat in a sort of dumb and speechless state in Alice
Mendon's room. It seemed to her like a bad dream. Alice herself
stormed. She had a high temper, but seldom gave way to it. Now she
did. There was something about this which roused her utmost powers of
indignation.

"It is simply an outrage," declared Alice, marching up and down the
large room, her rich white gown trailing behind her, her chin high.
"I did not think her capable of it. It is the worst form of thievery
in the world, stealing the work of another's brain. It is
inconceivable that Margaret Edes could have done such a preposterous
thing. I never liked her. I don't care if I do admit it, but I never
thought she was capable of such an utterly ignoble deed. It was all
that I could do to master myself, not to stand up before them all and
denounce her. Well, her time will come."

"Alice," said a ghastly little voice from the stricken figure on the
couch, "are you sure? Am I sure? Was that from my book?"

"Of course it was from your book. Why, you know it was from your
book, Annie Eustace," cried Alice and her voice sounded high with
anger toward poor Annie herself.

"I hoped that we might be mistaken after all," said the voice, which
had a bewildered quality. Annie Eustace had a nature which could not
readily grasp some of the