estiny. The stakes were extravagant, but her cards
were poor. Then abruptly, in one of the prodigious shuffles that fate
contrives, a hand, issuing from nowhere, had dealt her a flush. She
purred at it, at the avenue, at the world, at her daughter.

"I am so glad we are not going anywhere to-night." A car flew by, a
gloved hand waved and the purr continued. "Wasn't that Sarah Amsterdam?
By the way, what did the medium tell you? Anything about a dark man
crossing your path? If not, it was very careless of her. But what was I
talking about? Oh, yes, I am so glad we are to be at home. You can have
a nice, quiet evening with your young man. Only, do you know, I wouldn't
say anything about that little vestal. He might not like it. Men are so
queer. They hate to be misunderstood and to be understood makes them
furious. No, I wouldn't mention it. But now isn't he as full of
surprises as a grab-bag? I thought him a model of the most perfect
propriety, and that only shows how wrong it is to judge by appearances.
Model young men always remind me of floor-walkers. Who was that that
just bowed? Dear me, so it was, and he looked so down in the mouth he
might have been a dentist. On Monday I really must go to my dentist. He
does hurt terribly and that is so reassuring. You feel that you are
getting your money's worth. Don't your teeth need attending to? Ah, here
we are at last! God bless our home!"

Entering the hall, she looked at a little room to the right in which the
manager awed prospecting tenants. Usually it was empty. It was empty
then. Mrs. Austen looked, passed on and, preceding Margaret, entered a
lift that floated them to the home on which she had asked a blessing.

VIII

The Italians have a proverb about waiting for some one who does not
come. They call it deadly. Among the lapping shadows Lennox felt the
force of it. But concluding that visitors had detained his guests, he
dressed and went around a corner or two to the Athenaeum Club where
usually he dined.

In the main room which gives on Fifth Avenue, he found Ten Eyck Jones
talking war. Jones was a novelist, but he did not look like one. There
was nothing commercial in his appearance, which was that of a man
half-asleep, except when he talked and then he seemed very much awake.
He was not fat and though an inkbeast, he dressed after the manner of
those who put themselves in the best hands and then forget all about it.
But for Lennox he had a superior qua