oon be crawling down for their evening nourishment, for
Miss Tucker and his neighbor, Mr. Bunce, who by day made tooth-powder
and by night talked Pater. He rose and held out his hand to the
princess of the blood. Graciously she rose from her throne.

Graciously she said: "Good-by, David. It was good of you to drop in."

And graciously she added, as he backed awkwardly away: "Remember, you
must let me know when Miss Todd comes. I shall call."

CHAPTER XVIII

I dined with the Blights. It had been a month since the afternoon when
I talked with Penelope, and this evening in December I went to the
house with hope high that in seeing her again I might have an
opportunity of regaining a little of our lost friendship. The
invitation had come from her, over the telephone, to dine with them
most informally, and though she cleared herself of any charge of
interest in the matter by adding that Mr. Blight wished to see me, I
flattered myself with the hope that she might be speaking more
personally than she cared to admit. How soon was that illusion
wrecked! I entered the great library. Mrs. Bannister was standing by
the fireplace, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall, her mind occupied
with a struggle to suppress a yawn of boredom. Rufus Blight was
reading a newspaper, but when I was announced he came forward and
greeted me cordially. With his arm in mine he led me to Mrs.
Bannister, and she allowed me to raise her hand and drop it. She said
something, made some conventional remark on the great pleasure it gave
her to see me; the yawn almost forced itself into view, but she set her
lips firmly and drove it back. As I made my response to these friendly
expressions of welcome my eyes swept the room and rested at last on the
door through which I had come. There they held expectantly.

Mrs. Bannister read my thoughts. "Penelope is so distressed that she
cannot see you to-night," she said, drawing her scarf across her bared
and massive shoulders, so that I wondered if my entrance had suddenly
chilled the air. "She had expected to be here, but this afternoon the
Ruyters called up and insisted that she dine with them and go to the
opera. It's 'Tristan.' She is mad about 'Tristan.'"

So faded the last vain hope! Had Penelope spent hours in devising a
way of making it plain to me that the link between the past and the
present was broken, she could not have been more adroit. Had David
Malcolm, the boy, been comi