gue as the shadow of a rainbow, is the very essence and
aroma of that impalpable Paradise we women prophesy in dreams! ... More
sentiment! Heigho! My brother is the weeping crocodile, and the five
winds are my wits. ... Shall we dress? Even with a maid and the electric
air-blast it will take time to dry my hair and dress it."

When he came out of his dressing-room she was apparently still in the
hands of the maid. So he sauntered through the house as far as the
library, and drawing a cheque-book from one pocket, fished out a
memorandum-book from another, and began to cast up totals with a view to
learning something about the various debts contracted at Shotover.

He seemed to owe everybody. Fortune had smitten him hip and thigh; and,
a trifle concerned, he began covering a pad with figures until he knew
where he stood. Then he drew a considerable cheque to Major Belwether's
order, another to Alderdene. Others followed to other people for various
amounts; and he was very busily at work when, aware of another presence
near, he turned around in his chair. Sylvia Landis was writing at a desk
in the corner, and she looked up, nodding the little greeting that she
always reserved for him even after five minutes' separation.

"I'm writing cheques," she said. "I suppose you're writing to your
mother."

"Why do you think so?" he asked curiously.

"You write to her every day, don't you?"

"Yes," he said, "but how do you know?"

She looked at him with unblushing deliberation. "You wrote every day. ...
If it was to a woman, I wanted to know. ... And I told Grace Ferrall that
it worried me. And then Grace told me. Is there any other confession of
my own pettiness that I can make to you."

"Did you really care to whom I was writing?" he asked slowly.

"Care? I--it worried me. Was it not a pitifully common impulse? 'Sisters
under our skin,' you know--I and the maid who dresses me. She would have
snooped; I didn't; that's the only generic difference. I wanted to know
just the same. ... But--that was before--"

"Before what?"

"Before I--please don't ask me to say it. ... I did, once, when you asked
me."

"Before you cared for me. Is that what you mean?"

"Yes. You are so cruelly literal when you wish to punish me. ... You are
interrupting me, too. I owe that wretched Kemp Ferrall a lot of money,
and I'm trying to find out how much seven and nine are, to close
accounts with Marion Page."

Siward turned and continued hi