have made me. It is beautiful,
even for you, to make people happy. That is why you do it: what else
could you do? Life is made up of illusions, I think. Let me therefore
add to the sum of mine that you have desired my happiness." This sort
of thing, which once had stirred her to gentle amusement, now made her
words fall dry. "You mustn't forget that James has desired it too."
"Oh," said Francis Lingen, "that's very kind of him."

"Really, it is Mr. Urquhart's party. He invented it."

"Did he desire my happiness too?" asked Lingen, provoked into mockery
of his own eloquence by these chills upon it.

"At least he provided for it," said Lucy, "and that you shouldn't be
uncomfortable I have asked Margery Dacre to come."

Lingen felt this to be unkind. But he closed his eyes and said, "How
splendid."

That was the fact. It had been an afterthought of hers, and partially
countered on James. Margery Dacre also had accepted. She had said,
"How too delicious!" James, when made aware that she was coming,
ducked his head, it is true, but made a damaging defence.

"Is she?" he said. "Why?"

"She'll make our number a square one," she replied, "to begin with.
And she might make it more pleasant for the others--Francis Lingen and
Mr. Urquhart."

If she hadn't been self-conscious she would never have said such a
thing as that. James's commentary, "I see," and the subsequent
digestion of the remark by the eyeglass, made her burn with shame. She
felt spotted, she felt reproach, she looked backward with compunction
and longing to the beginning of things. There was now a tarnish on the
day. Yet there was no going back.

Clearly she was not of the hardy stuff of which sinners must be made
if they are to be cheerful sinners. She was qualmish and easily
dismayed. Urquhart was away, or she would have dared the worst that
could befall her, and dragged out of its coffer her poor tattered robe
of romance. Between them they would have owned to the gaping seams
and frayed edges. Then he might have kissed her--and Good-bye. But he
was not at hand, and she could not write down what she could hardly
contemplate saying.

Never, in fact, was a more distressful lady on the eve of a party of
pleasure. Lancelot's serious enjoyment of the prospect, evident in
every line of his letters, was her only relish; but even that could
not sting her answers to vivacity. "I hope the Norwegians are very
sensible. They will need all their sense, because we