Paul, it is to be feared, was what hostesses call heavy in hand. He
laughed where he saw something to laugh at, but not elsewhere, which in
some circles is considered morose and in bad form. He joined readily
enough in the conversation, but originated nothing. Those topics which
occupied his mind did not present themselves as suitable to this
occasion. His devotion to Etta was quite obvious, and he was simple
enough not to care that it should be so.

Maggie was by turns quite silent and very talkative. When Paul and Etta
were speaking together she never looked at them, but fixedly at her own
plate, at a decanter, or a salt-cellar. When she spoke she addressed her
remarks--valueless enough in themselves--exclusively to the man she
disliked, Claude de Chauxville.

There was something amiss in the pretty little room. There were shadows
seated around that pretty little table a quatre, beside the guests in
their pretty dresses and their black coats; silent cold shadows, who ate
nothing, while they chilled the dainty food and took the sweetness from
the succulent dishes. These shadows had crept in unawares, a silent
partie carree, to take their phantom places at the table, and only Etta
seemed able to jostle hers aside and talk it down. She took the whole
burden of the conversation upon her pretty shoulders, and bore it
through the little banquet with unerring skill and unflinching good
humor. In the midst of her merriest laughter, the clever gray eyes would
flit from one man's face to the other. Paul had been brought here to ask
her to marry him. Claude de Chauxville had been invited that he might be
tacitly presented to his successful rival. Maggie was there because she
was a woman and made the necessary fourth. Puppets all, and two of them
knew it. And some of us know it all our lives. We are living, moving
puppets. We let ourselves be dragged here and pushed there, the victim
of one who happens to have more energy of mind, a greater steadfastness
of purpose, a keener grasp of the situation called life. We smirk and
smile, and lose the game because we have begun by being anvils, and are
afraid of trying to be hammers.

But Etta Sydney Bamborough had to deal with metal of a harder grain than
the majority of us. Claude de Chauxville was for the moment forced to
assume the humble role of anvil because he had no choice. Maggie
Delafield was passive for the time being, because that which would make
her active was no more than