form of an invitation to one
of her sacred card-parties, tentative notice that she would consider
joining forces. We recognized the olive-branch, seriously extended.
The next move was ours.

"There's a time to fight, and a time to leave off fighting," Alicia
decided. "Here's where we disarm. When these people come from under
the shade of the dear old family tree, they're quite human. We have
got to let them give themselves the opportunity to discover that
we're human, too."

It wasn't necessary to explain things to The Author, because a
portion of his brain is purely and cattily feminine. That's why he
is a genius. No man is a genius whose brain isn't bisexual.

"I shall have to lay aside a cherished prejudice and lend this lady
the light of my countenance, although I loathe card-parties. I abhor
cards, outside of draw-poker on shipboard, with a crook of sorts
sitting in to lend the game a fillip. Despite the fact that poor
Mrs. Scarboro couldn't lay hands on a decent crook to save her life,
I think I shall go, and thereby acquire merit," he concluded, with
the air of a martyr.

I looked at him gratefully.

"I'll wager that little Sophy thinks she wants to go because she
desires to be friends and neighbors. 'Behold how good and how
pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity!'--You're a
transparent person, you Sophy!"

"But I do desire to be friends with them. I have to live here all
the rest of my life, haven't I?"

"Not necessarily," replied The Author, arching his eyebrows. "For
instance, you can live in New York any time you want to, Sophy."

"I've never told you that you might call me Sophy," I parried,
hastily.

"Oh, but I like to call you Sophy," he responded airily. "And
really, you shouldn't mind. I've called people lots worse things
than Sophy, in my time! But then," he added, "I didn't happen to
like them. As for you, I find you a very likeable being, Sophy; upon
my word, extremely likeable!"

"Thank you," said I. I wasn't anxious to hear The Author tell me how
likable he found me; at least, not yet.

* * * * *

For pride's sake as well as for the sake of custom--and in South
Carolina custom has all the power of a fetish--Mrs. Scarboro would
have died rather than vary by one jot or tittle her usual
refreshments, or wear a new frock, on that particular night. Yet the
occasion, despite its mild diversions, was distinctly epochal, in
that it marked the