bored at the prospect of her visit this time. He did
not resent it at all when I called her an upholstered old lady. I really
think," she added, with modest justice, "that I am rather good at
poisoning people's minds against their undesirable friends." She paused,
debating how long it would take her to separate Mathilde from the Wayne
boy; and recalling that this was no topic for an invalid, she smiled at
him and went down-stairs.

"My dear Adelaide!" said Mrs. Baxter, enveloping her in a powdery
caress.

"How wonderfully you're looking, Mrs. Baxter," said Adelaide, choosing
her adverb with intention.

"Now tell me, dear," said Mrs. Baxter, with a wave of a gloved hand,
"what are those Italian embroideries?"

"Those?" Adelaide lifted her eyebrows. "Ah, you're in fun! A collector
like you! Surely you know what those are."

"No," answered Mrs. Baxter, firmly, though she wished she had selected
something else to comment on.

"Oh, they are the Villanelli embroideries," said Adelaide, carelessly,
very much as if she had said they were the Raphael cartoons, so that Mrs.
Baxter was forced to reply in an awestruck tone:

"You don't tell me! Are they, really?"

Adelaide nodded brightly. She had not actually made up the name. It
was that of an obscure little palace where she had bought the
hangings, and if Mrs. Baxter had had the courage to acknowledge
ignorance, Adelaide would have told the truth. As it was, she
recognized that by methods such as this she could retain absolute
control over people like Mrs. Baxter.

The lady from Baltimore decided on a more general scope.

"Ah, your room!" she said. "Do you know whose it always reminds me
of--that lovely salon of Madame de Liantour's?"

"What, of poor little Henrietta's!" cried Adelaide, and she laid her hand
appealingly for an instant on Mrs. Baxter's knee. "That's a cruel thing
to say. All her good things, you know, were sold years ago. Everything
she has is a reproduction. Am I really like her?"

Getting out of this as best she could on a vague statement about
atmosphere and sunshine and charm, Mrs. Baxter took refuge in inquiries
about Vincent's health, "your charming child," and "your dear father."

"You know more about my dear father than I do," returned Adelaide,
sweetly. It was Mrs. Baxter's cue.

"I did not feel last evening that I knew anything about him at all. He
is in a new phase, almost a new personality. Tell me, who is this
Mrs. Wayne?"

"Mrs.