she'd have been his widow now, and Lydia a dependent
step-daughter. How she would have hated that!

The Piers had built a perfect French chateau, and had been successful in
changing the scrubby woods into gardens and terraces and groves. Lydia
stepped out of the car and paused on the wide marble steps, wrapping
her cloak about her with straight arms, as an Indian wraps his blanket
about him. She turned her head slightly at her chauffeur's inquiry as to
the hour of her return.

"Oh," she said, "eight--ten--bridge. Come back at eleven."

The mirrors in the Piers' dressing room were flattering as she dropped
her cloak with one swift motion into the hands of the waiting servant
and saw a reflection of her slim gold-and-green figure with the emerald
band across her forehead.

She saw at a glance on entering the drawing-room that it wasn't a very
good party--only eight, and nothing much in the line of bridge players.
She listened temperately to Fanny Piers' explanation that four people
had given out since six o'clock. She nodded, admitting the excuse and
reserving the opinion that if the Piers gave better parties people
wouldn't chuck them so often.

She looked about. There was Tim Andrews again. Well, she could always
amuse herself well enough with Tim. May Swayne--a soft blond creature
whom Lydia had known for many years and ignored. Indeed, May was as
little aware of Lydia's methods as a mole of a thunderstorm. Then there
was Hamilton Gore, the lean home wrecker of a former generation, not
bad--a little elderly, a little too epigrammatic for the taste of this
day; but still, once a home wrecker always a home wrecker. He was still
stimulating. The last time she had talked to him he had called her a
sleek black panther. That always pleases, of course. Since then Fanny
Piers, a notable mischief-maker, had repeated something else he said. He
had called her a futile barbarian. She disliked the "futile." She would
take it up with him; that would amuse her if everything else failed. She
would say, "Hello, Mr. Gore! I suppose you hardly expected to meet a
barbarian at dinner--especially a futile one." It would make Fanny
wretched, but then if Fanny would repeat things she must expect to get
into trouble.

And then, of course, there was Eleanor's new best bet--the intensely
interesting and absolutely worthwhile young man. Lydia looked about, and
there he was. Dear me, she thought, he certainly was interesting and
worth whil