trong on duty, you know. I tried my best to persuade her to do the play
with me to-night, but she wouldn't. She said she had no end of things to
look after.

"Oh, I am so glad I met you! It is sheer luck. You see there were some
people to dinner, and afterward, there were enough for bridge without me,
so I just slipped away without a word to anybody and hid myself in a box.
And I do hope you're hungry, Bobby. I am dreadfully. Nothing makes me so
hungry as a play. Well, we'll all have some supper after a bit."

Hayden's heart sang. He had sought and sought and all his seeking had
been vain, and here, by a mere chance, at an unlooked-for moment, the
knowledge he had so ardently sought was his. He could afford to wait now;
he leaned back comfortably and listened with an air of most eager
interest to his cousin's chatter.

Kitty had quite recovered her spirits, and when they stopped before her
door she was in the full tide of some gay reminiscences, and she
continued her animated recital until they reached her drawing-room.

There were a number of people present who seemed just to have left the
bridge-tables and were still discussing the game. Warren Hampton, a tall,
quiet, rather elderly man, welcomed Hayden cordially. They had always
been good friends, and this was the first time they had met for several
years. The rest, Hayden had either met casually or had to make the
acquaintance of. Among this latter group was Mrs. Habersham, mentioned by
Penfield as one of Marcia Oldham's most loyal friends, and Hayden was
Tremendously interested in discovering in her the dark woman with the
rose-colored gown and the cerise wings in her hair with whom Marcia had
talked that night at the opera.

Somewhat to his disappointment, he was not seated near her at the very
jolly little supper which was served later, but was placed instead
between Kitty and a sallow, angular, vivacious woman with an unbecoming
blue fillet in her hair. He had been talking to Mrs. Habersham and
Hampton, and had not really happened to glance at Kitty since they had
entered the room, but after they were seated at the table, he turned to
speak to her and was absolutely struck dumb.

He drew his hand across his brow as if to brush away the cobwebs in his
brain. What was this? From what sort of an obsession was he suffering? He
had been thinking so much of those butterflies that he saw them wherever
he looked; but, poor victim of delusion that he was, he could s