e up by this
method, with a slight resentment against the man who had forced her to
adopt so illogical a line of conduct.

A middle course appealed to her. She laid her hand on Ben's. A few
minutes before it would have seemed unbelievable to Ben that his own
hand would have remained cold and lifeless under that touch, but such
was now the case.

"Ben," she said, "if you go on being disagreeable a second longer you
must make up your mind how you will behave when I burst into tears."

"How I should behave?"

She nodded.

His hands clasped hers. He told her how he should behave. He even
offered to show her, without putting her to the trouble of tears.

"You mean," she said, "that you would forgive me? Well, forgive me,
anyhow. I'm doing what I think is right about this old dinner. Perhaps
I'm wrong about it; perhaps you're mistaken and I'm not absolutely
perfect, but if I were, think what a lot of fun you would miss in
changing me. And you know I never meant to abandon you for the whole
evening. I'll get away at half past nine and we'll take a little
turn."

So that was settled.

CHAPTER III

As they drove back she revealed another plan to him--she was taking
him for a moment to see a friend of hers. He protested. He did not
want to see anyone but herself, but Crystal was firm. He must see this
woman; she was their celebrated parlor Bolshevist. Ben hated parlor
Bolshevists. Did he know any? No. Well, then. Anyhow, Sophia would
never forgive her if she did not bring him. Sophia adored celebrities.
Sophia who? Sophia Dawson. The name seemed dimly familiar to Ben, and
then he remembered. It was the name on the thousand-dollar check for
the strike sufferers that had come in the day before.

They drove up an avenue of little oaks to a formidable palace built
of gray stone, so smoothly faced that there was not a crevice in the
immense pale facade. Two men in knee-breeches opened the double doors
and they went in between golden grilles and rows of tall white lilies.
They were led through a soundless hall, and up stairs so thickly
carpeted that the feet sank in as in new-fallen snow, and finally they
were ushered through a small painted door into a small painted room,
which had been brought all the way from Sienna, and there they found
Mrs. Dawson--a beautiful, worn, world-weary Mrs. Dawson, with one
streak of gray in the front of her dark hair, her tragic eyes, and her
long violet and black draperies--a perf