hat inclination was to whistle.

She whistled, now, while preparing for the bath; whistled like a
blackbird as she stood before the pier-glass before the maid hooked
her into a filmy, rosy evening gown--her first touch of colour since
assuming mourning.

The bell rang, and the waitress brought an elaborate florist's box.
There were pink orchids in it and Jim's card;--perfection.

How could he have known! She wondered rapturously, realising all the
while that they'd have gone quite as well with her usual black.

Would he come early? She had forgotten to ask it. Would he? For, in
that event--and considering his inclination to take her into his
arms--she decided to leave off the orchids until the more strenuous
rites of friendship had been accomplished.

She was carrying the orchids and the long pin attached, in her left
hand, when the sound of the doorbell filled her with abrupt and
delightful premonitions. She ventured a glance over the banisters,
then returned hastily to the living room, where he discovered her and
did exactly what she had feared.

Her left hand, full of orchids, rested on his shoulder; her cool,
fresh lips rested on his. Then she retreated, inviting inspection of
the rosy dinner gown; and fastened her orchids while he was admiring
it.

Her guests began to arrive before either was quite ready, so engrossed
were they in happy gossip. And Palla looked up in blank surprise that
almost amounted to vexation when the bell announced that their
tete-a-tete was ended.

Shotwell had met the majority of Palla's dinner guests. Seated on her
right, he received from his hostess information concerning some of
those he did not know.

"That rather talkative boy with red hair is Larry Rideout," she said
in a low voice. "He edits a weekly called _The Coming Race_. The Post
Office authorities have refused to pass it through the mails. It's
rather advanced, you know."

"Who is the girl on his right--the one with the chalky map?"

"Questa Terrett. Don't you think her pallor is fascinating?"

"No. What particular stunt does she perform?"

"Don't be flippant. She writes."

"Ads?"

"Jim! She writes poems. Haven't you seen any of them?"

"I don't think so."

"They're rather modern poems. The lines don't rhyme and there's no
metrical form," explained Palla.

"Are they any good?"

"They're a little difficult to understand. She leaves out so many
verbs and nouns----"

"I know. It's a part of her disease-