ys had been wasted and thrown away.
Death must have laughed to see her sitting in the shadow of the apple
trees waiting for a visit that was undeserved. Marty could live and
enjoy himself without her. That was evident. Very well, then, she could
live and enjoy herself without Marty. The earth was large enough for
them both, and if he could find love in the person of that small girl
she could surely find it in one or other of the men who had whispered
in her ear. Also there was Gilbert Palgrave, who had gone down upon his
knees.

And that was the end of her isolation, her voluntary retirement. Back
she went to the City of Dreadful Nonsense, bought clothes and shoes and
hats, found an invitation to join a house party at Southampton, made no
effort to see or hear from Marty, and sprang back into her seat in the
Merry-go-round. "Who Cares?" she cried again. "Nobody," she answered.
"What I do with my life matters to no one but myself. Set the pace, my
dear, laugh and flirt and play with fire and have a good time. A short
life and a merry one."

And then she joined the Hosacks, drank deep of the wine of adulation,
and when, at odd times, the sound of Marty's voice echoed in her
memory, she forced it out and laughed it away. "Who Cares?" was his
motto too,--red lips and white face and hair that came out of a bottle!

And now here was Gilbert Palgrave with the fire of love in his eyes.

IV

When Mrs. Hosack rose from the dinner table and sailed Olympically into
the drawing-room, surrounded by graceful light craft in the persons of
Primrose and her girl friends, the men, as usual, followed immediately.
The house was bridge mad, and the tables called every one except Joan,
the nice boy, and Gilbert Palgrave.

During the preliminaries of an evening which would inevitably run into
the small hours, Joan went over to the piano and, with what was a quite
unconscious touch of irony, played one of Heller's inimitable
"Sleepless Nights," with the soft pedal down. The large imposing room,
a chaotic mixture of French and Italian furniture with Flemish
tapestries and Persian rugs, which accurately typified the ubiquitous
mind of the hostess, was discreetly lighted. The numerous screened
windows were open and the soft warm air came in tinged with the salt of
the sea.

Palgrave, refusing to cut in, stood about like a disembodied spirit,
with his eyes on Joan, from whom, since his arrival, he had received
only a few fleeting g