n honor in Germany, I understand. 'At Whose Door' has been
translated. I am so unfortunate as not to read German."

"I'm all excitement at the prospect of meeting Miss Broadwood,"
said Imogen. "I've seen her in nearly everything she does. Her stage
personality is delightful. She always reminds me of a nice, clean,
pink-and-white boy who has just had his cold bath, and come down all
aglow for a run before breakfast."

"Yes, but isn't it unfortunate that she will limit herself to those
minor comedy parts that are so little appreciated in this country? One
ought to be satisfied with nothing less than the best, ought one?" The
peculiar, breathy tone in which Flavia always uttered that word "best,"
the most worn in her vocabulary, always jarred on Imogen and always made
her obdurate.

"I don't at all agree with you," she said reservedly. "I thought
everyone admitted that the most remarkable thing about Miss Broadwood is
her admirable sense of fitness, which is rare enough in her profession."

Flavia could not endure being contradicted; she always seemed to regard
it in the light of a defeat, and usually colored unbecomingly. Now she
changed the subject.

"Look, my dear," she cried, "there is Frau Lichtenfeld now, coming to
meet us. Doesn't she look as if she had just escaped out of Valhalla?
She is actually over six feet."

Imogen saw a woman of immense stature, in a very short skirt and a
broad, flapping sun hat, striding down the hillside at a long, swinging
gait. The refugee from Valhalla approached, panting. Her heavy, Teutonic
features were scarlet from the rigor of her exercise, and her hair,
under her flapping sun hat, was tightly befrizzled about her brow. She
fixed her sharp little eyes upon Imogen and extended both her hands.

"So this is the little friend?" she cried, in a rolling baritone.

Imogen was quite as tall as her hostess; but everything, she reflected,
is comparative. After the introduction Flavia apologized.

"I wish I could ask you to drive up with us, Frau Lichtenfeld."

"Ah, no!" cried the giantess, drooping her head in humorous caricature
of a time-honored pose of the heroines of sentimental romances. "It has
never been my fate to be fitted into corners. I have never known the
sweet privileges of the tiny."

Laughing, Flavia started the ponies, and the colossal woman, standing
in the middle of the dusty road, took off her wide hat and waved them
a farewell which, in scope of gesture, rec