den brown hair, pinched
her pale checks until roses grew in them, observed that her skirt hung
properly, and then descended to the drawing-room, which she entered with
an air of smiling hospitality, of luminous loveliness, of radiant
youthfulness, calculated to beguile the sternest of men from their
habitual discretion.

The two gentlemen rose to greet her with every indication of pleasure.
As a matter of fact, they enjoyed the charm that radiated from the
beautiful young woman, but, in addition, they rejoiced in this
opportunity to gather from her carelessness some information that the
reserve of her husband would certainly have withheld. It was with
deliberate suggestion that Morton addressed her heartily as "Mrs.
Partner," having in mind a former interview, in which she had so
declared herself. But it was Carrington who, after the three were
seated, and while waiting for the tea-equipage, ventured to introduce
the topic of his desires directly by asking how business was.

"Oh, business is booming!" Cicily answered, with such a manner of
enthusiasm that it hoodwinked her hearers completely. They uttered
ejaculations of surprise involuntarily, but managed to refrain from any
more open expressions of wonder. "Oh, yes, indeed!" Cicily continued,
following blindly an instinct of prevarication that had been suddenly
born within her brain. "Isn't it splendid? We just ended our strike
to-day." She stared intently at Carrington with sparkling eyes. It
filled her with secret delight to witness the expression of
consternation on that gentleman's face; and she could not resist the
temptation to add maliciously, although she veiled her voice: "I know
that you're glad for us, Mr. Carrington. I can just tell it by looking
at you."

"Er--oh--yes, of course," Carrington stammered hastily, the while he
attempted a wry smile. He pulled his handkerchief from a pocket, and
wiped his forehead.

"Yes, indeed; we're both delighted," Morton added quickly, to cover the
too evident confusion of his associate.

"Ah," Cicily went on gloatingly, turning the iron in the wound
relentlessly, "it does surely make you feel good when you win a strike,
doesn't it? Next to an Easter hat, I think the winning of a strike is
the grandest sensation!"

"So, you really won?" Morton inquired, half-suspiciously.

"Oh, yes!" Cicily assured him, with an inflection of absolute sincerity.
Then, abruptly, the expression of her face changed to one of alarm,