others that same right to be human which they themselves
exercise, whether they will or no, when things happen that smash the
veneer of "gentleman" or "lady" like an eggshell under a plowboy's heel,
and penetrate to and roil that unlovely human nature which is in us all.
Criticism is supercilious, even when it is just; so, without criticism,
the fact is recorded that Adelaide paced the floor and literally raved in
her fury at this double-distilled, double treachery. The sense that she
had lost the man she believed she loved was drowned in the oceanic flood
of infuriated vanity. She raged now against Ross and now against Theresa
"She's marrying him just because she's full of envy, and can't bear to
see anybody else have anything," she fumed. "Theresa couldn't love
anybody but herself. And he--he's marrying her for her money. She isn't
good to look at; to be in the house with her is to find out how mean and
small and vain she is. It serves me right for being snob enough to have
such a friend. If she hadn't been immensely rich and surrounded by such
beautiful things I'd never have had anything to do with her. She's buying
him; he's selling himself. How vile!"

But the reasons why they were betraying her did not change or mitigate
the fact of betrayal; and that fact showed itself to proud, confident
Adelaide Ranger in the form of the proposition that she had been jilted,
and that all the world, all her world, would soon know it. Jilted!
She--Adelaide Ranger--the all-conqueror--flung aside, flouted, jilted.
She went back to that last word; it seemed to concentrate all the insult
and treason and shame that were heaped upon her. And she never once
thought of the wound to her heart; the fierce fire of vanity seemed to
have cauterized it--if there was a wound.

What could she do to hide her disgrace from her mocking, sneering
friends? For, hide it she must--must--_must_! And she had not a
moment to lose.

A little thought, and she went to the telephone and called up her brother
at the Country Club. When she heard his voice, in fear and fright,
demanding what she wanted, she said:

"Will you bring Dory Hargrave to dinner to-night? And, of course, don't
let him know I wanted you to."

"Is _that_ all!" exclaimed Arthur in a tone of enormous relief, which she
was too absorbed in her calamity to be conscious of.

"You will, won't you? Really, Arthur, it's _very_ important; and don't
say a _word_ of my having telephoned--not to