erself, watching him striding toward the
elevator, then, closing the door, she stood still in the centre of
the room, staring at her own reflection, full length, in the gilded
pier-glass, her lips edged with a sneer so like Quarrier's that, the
next moment she laughed aloud, imitating Quarrier's rare laugh from
sheer perversity.

"I think," she said to her reflected figure in the glass, "I think that
you are either mentally ill or inherently a kind of devil. And I don't
much care which."

And she turned leisurely, her slim hands balanced lightly on her narrow
hips, and strolled into the second dressing-room, where Mrs. Vendenning
sat sullenly indulging in that particular species of solitaire known as
"The Idiot's Delight."

"Well?" inquired Mrs. Vendenning, looking up at the tall, pale girl she
was chaperoning so carefully during their sojourn in town.

"Oh, you know the rhyme to that," yawned Agatha; "let's ring up
somebody. I'm bored stiff."

"What did Howard Quarrier want?"

"He knows, I think, but he hasn't yet informed me."

"I'll tell you one thing, Agatha," said Mrs. Vendenning, gathering
up the packs for a new shuffle: "Grace Ferrall doesn't fancy Howard's
attention to you and she's beginning to say so. When you go back to
Shotover you'd better let him alone."

"I'm not going back to Shotover," said Agatha.

"What?"

"No; I don't think so. However, I'll let you know to-morrow. It all
depends--but I don't expect to." She turned as her maid tapped on
the door. "Oh, Captain Voucher. Are you at home to him?" flipping the
pasteboard onto the table among the scattered cards.

"Yes," said Mrs. Vendenning aggressively, "unless you expect him to flop
down on his knees to-night. Do you?"

"I don't--to-night. Perhaps to-morrow. I don't know; I can't tell yet."
And to her maid she nodded that they were at home to Captain Voucher.

Quarrier had met him, too, just as he was leaving the hotel lobby. They
exchanged the careful salutations of men who had no use for one another.
On the Englishman's clean-cut face a deeper hue settled as he passed; on
Quarrier's, not a trace of emotion; but when he entered his motor he
sat bolt upright, stiff-backed and stiff-necked, his long gray-gloved
fingers moving restlessly over his pointed heard.

The night was magnificent; myriads of summer stars spangled the heavens.
Even in the reeking city itself a slight freshness grew in the air,
although there was no wind to stir