are excellent and her head perfectly poised. That white dress suits her. Have you been in the dining-room?"

Laine came from behind the palms. "No; I was to wait for Hope. Awfully glad to have seen you, Robin. A stranger in a strange land has a chance, but a man who has lost his place hasn't. People have a way of closing up if you lose step, and I"—he laughed—"I lost step long ago. I'll see you again." And, watching, Miss French saw him take possession of Miss Keith and go with her out of the room.

Half an hour later Laine found a chair for Claudia at the end of the hall opposite the dining-room, and as she sat down he wiped his forehead. "I used to play football, but—"

"You're out of practice? I don't believe you did take more than three men by the shoulders and put them aside. I don't understand football very well, but a dining-room seems to be the center-rush. Please look at that crowd over there!" She nodded toward the open door, through which a mass of men could be seen struggling. "Isn't it queer—the eagerness with which a plate of salad is pursued?"

"And the earnestness with which it is devoured." Laine put his handkerchief in his pocket. Will you wait here a moment until I can get you something? I'll be back—"

"Indeed I won't." Claudia stood up. "It's fun to watch, but only fruit from the tree of life would be worth a scrimmage of that kind. If I could get on top of a picture-frame or a curtain-pole, or anything from which I could look down on a show like this, I'd have a beautiful time, but"—she opened her fan—"it's rather stuffy to be in it."

Laine glanced around. He knew the house well. Next to the library, but not opening into it, was a small room of Taillor's which could only be reached by a narrow passage at their right. He walked away and looked in at the door. The room was empty.

"I think it will be more comfortable over there," he said, coming back, then saw she was talking to a man he had long known and long disliked. He stopped a servant who was passing, a man who had once been in the employ of one of his clubs. "Bring some stuff over here and be quick, will you, David?" he said, then spoke to the man talking to Miss Keith.

His greeting to Dudley was not cordial. It was with difficulty indeed that he did not take Claudia away at once. Dudley was not the sort of man for her to have anything to do with. In a time incredibly short, but to Laine irritatingly long, David was back, abundantly supplied; and with a nod he was directed to the room at the end of the narrow hall, and Laine turned to the girl at his side. "Are you ready?"

"Good night." Miss Keith held out her hand. "Bettina sent you many messages."

"I'm coming to get them—may I?" Mr. Dudley's eyes were frankly eager. "But where are you going? Laine always was a monopolist. What are you doing at a thing of this kind, anyhow, Laine? Don't pay any attention to him, Miss Keith. He's mere facts and figures, and the froth of life is not in him. I'm much better company."

The last words were lost in the push of new arrivals, and quickly Laine led the way to the room where David was waiting. Through the open door the sound of music reached them faintly over the shrill rise and fall of many voices; and as Claudia sat down near the table on which various plates had been placed she put her hands to the sides of her face and, laughing, drew them away.

"Did you ever put a cockle-shell to your ear and notice its roar?" she asked. "That's how a Tea sounds when there're only women at it. When there're men it's more so. What is this?" She held her fork suspended for a moment. "It's awfully good, but very elusive. What do you suppose it is?"

"A bunch of guesses wouldn't hit it. Clicot is providing the provender, I believe; I see his men here, and the ambition of Clicot's life is to create a new dish. I'm glad you like it. It's as near nothing as anything I ever ate. Are you comfortable? Is that chair all right?"

Claudia nodded. "Why don't you sit down? I'm sorry we can't see the people, but it's nice to be out of the crowd." She looked around the room. "This is a very handsome house. I never saw more gorgeous flowers, and tomorrow," she gave a queer little sigh, "tomorrow it will all be over—and the flowers faded."

"Faded things are the penalties of wealth. It's the one compensation for follies of this sort that they are soon over."

"I don't think they are always follies. When I was young—"

He looked down at her, in his eyes a quiet gleam. "When you were what?"

"Young. Really young, I mean. I had my party when I was eighteen. I remember it just as well." She gave a happy little laugh. "But of course we change with time. My sister says I am developing a dreadful disease. It's a tendency. Did you ever have it?"

"A what?"

"A tendency—to think and wonder and ask questions, you know. She says people who have it are very trying. But how can you help a thing you're born with?" She leaned forward, pushed the plates aside, and folded her arms on the table. "I always wondered about things, but I didn't entirely wake up until I was over twenty. I don't blame people for having things like this"—she waved her hands inclusively—"that is, if they like this kind of thing." She looked up at him. "We're just like children. All of us love to splurge every now and then. Don't we?"