taciturn by habit, even awkward in conversation. She
glowered at him darkly. The idea flashed through his mind: "There can't
be another girl like her. She's unique." He almost trembled at the
revelation. He was afraid, and yet courageous, challenging, combative.
She had grandeur. It might be moral, or not; but it was grandeur.
And--(that touch about the complexion!)--she could remember her
freckles! She might, in her hard egotism, in the rushing impulses of her
appetites--she might be an enemy, an enemy to close with whom would be
terrible rapture, and the war of the sexes was a sublime war, infinitely
superior in emotions to tame peace. (And had she not been certified an
angel? Had he not himself seen the angel in her?) She dwarfed her father
and mother. The conception, especially, of Mr. Ingram at lunch,
deliciously playful and dominating, and now with the adroit wit crushed
out of him and only a naive sentimentality left, was comic--as she had
ruthlessly characterized it. She alone towered formidably over the
devastated ruins of Irene's earthly splendour.

He said nothing.

She rang the bell by the mantelpiece. He heard it ring. No answer. She
rang again.

"_Arrivez donc, jeune fille!_" she exclaimed impatiently.

The servant came.

"_Apportez du the, Seraphine._"

"_Oui, mademoiselle._"

Then Lois lounged towards the table and tore sharply the wrapper of the
newspaper. George was still standing.

"He's probably got something in about her this week--about her soiree
last Tuesday. We weren't invited. Of course he went."

George saw the name the _Sunday Journal_. The paper had come by the
afternoon mail, and had been delivered, according to weekly custom, by
messenger from Mr. Ingram's office. Lois's tone and attitude tore
fatally the whole factitious 'Parisian' tradition, as her hand had torn
the wrapper.

"See here," she said quietly, after a few seconds, and gave the
newspaper with her thumb indicating a paragraph.

He could hardly read the heading, because it unnerved him; nor the
opening lines. But he read this: "The following six architects have been
selected by the Assessors and will be immediately requested by the
Corporation to submit final designs for the town hall: Mr. Whinburn,
Mr.... Mr.... Mr. George E. Cannon ..."

"What did I always tell you?" she said.

And then she said:

"Your telegram must have been addressed wrong, or something."

He sat down. Once again he was afraid. He was af