y don't
you start now?"

The fresh-colored man servant announced dinner. "Shall we go down?"
said Mrs. Ennis.

They left the little drawing-room, with its jonquils and warm shadows,
and went along a short hall, and then down three steps and across a
landing to the dining-room beyond. It, like the drawing-room, was small,
white-paneled to the ceiling, with a few rich prints of Constable
landscapes on the walls, and velvet-dark sideboards and tables that
caught the light of the candles. In the center was a table of snowy
drapery and silver and red roses.

Mrs. Ennis sank into her chair and looked about her with content. She
loved small dinners beautifully thought out, and even more she loved
them when, as on this night, they were composed of people who interested
her. She stole a glance at Burnaby. How clean and brown and alert he
was! The white table-cloth accentuated his look of fitness and muscular
control. What an amusing contrast he presented to the rather languid,
gesturing Pollen, who sat opposite him! And yet Pollen was considerable
of a man in his own way; very conquering in the affairs of life;
immensely clever in his profession of architecture. Famous, Mrs. Ennis
had heard.

But Mrs. Ennis, despite her feminine approval of success, couldn't
imagine herself being as much interested in him--dangerously
interested--as she knew her friend Mary Rochefort to be. How odd! From
all the world to pick out a tall, blond, willowy man like Pollen! On the
verge of middle age, too! Perhaps it was this very willowiness, this
apparent placidity that made him attractive. This child, Mary Rochefort,
quite alone in the world, largely untrained, adrift, imperiously
demanding from an imperious husband something to which she had not as
yet found the key, might very naturally gravitate toward any one
presenting Pollen's appearance of security; his attitude of complacence
in the face of feminine authority. But was he complacent? Mrs. Ennis had
her doubts. He was very vain; underneath his urbanity there might be an
elastic hardness.

There were, moreover, at times indications of a rather contemptuous
attitude toward a world less highly trained than himself. She turned to
Pollen, trying to recollect what for the last few moments he had been
saying to her. He perceived her more scrutinizing attention and faced
toward her. From under lowered eyelids he had been watching, with a
moody furtiveness, Mary Rochefort and Burnaby, who were