a few moments late at a bridge party in
order to pay her the respect employers should pay their employees. I
don't blame Trudy--I expect nothing of her--but I do blame you."

"So my plans are to be set aside----?"

"Plans!" he interrupted. "If someone else were to tell you that they
had an East Indian yogi who was going to give a seance this very
afternoon you would hotfoot it to the telephone to inform Trudy that
you must break your engagement with her, and send word to your
original hostess as well. That is about all your plans amount to."

Beatrice's eyes had grown slanting, shining with rage. "I wish you
would remember you are speaking to your wife and not to an employee. I
would not go to that funeral now if it meant--if it meant a divorce."
She pushed her chair back from the table--they were at luncheon--and
stood up indignantly.

Looking at her in her gay light chiffon with its traceries of gold
Steve wondered vaguely whether or not he had been wrong in selecting
his goal, whether he would ever be able really to understand this
Gorgeous Girl now that she belonged to him, or would discover that
there was nothing much to understand about her, that it could all be
summed up in the statement that her father by denying her a chance at
development had stunted the growth of her ability and her character
into raggle-taggle weeds of self-indulgence and willful temper.

"I shall not ask you to go with me," he knew he answered. It is quite
as terrifying to find that one's goal has been wrongly chosen and
ethically unsound as to find a boyhood dream merging into gorgeous
reality.

Beatrice swept out of the room. Steve made an elaborate pretense of
finishing his meal. Then he went into the drawing room in search of a
newspaper. He came upon Beatrice sitting on a floor cushion, feeding
Monster some bonbons.

"Have you been at her house?" she said, curiosity overcoming the
pique.

"Yes. Where is that paper? I dropped it in this chair when I came in
for luncheon."

"I had it taken away. I abominate newspapers in a drawing room--or
muddy shoes," she added, looking at his own. "What did she say? What
sort of a house is it?"

Steve stared at her in bewilderment. "What the devil difference does
it make to you?" he demanded, roughly.

She gave a little scream. "Don't you dare say such things to me." Then
she began to cry very prettily in a singsong, high-pitched voice.
"Monster--nobody loves us--nobody loves us--we can