ore the obnoxious word should be spoken. Yet it was true
that she had been married eighteen years. In another seven she would
be able to celebrate her silver wedding, an anniversary she had always
associated with old age. The horror of the situation was not lessened
by its grotesqueness.

"The worst of it is that everybody in this dreadful little town knows
all about it," she thought with a sense of panic. "People haven't
anything to do but remember dates." She wondered if she could prevail
upon her husband to go west, leaving Diantha in school somewhere. Then
she could say what she chose of her "little girl" without appealing to
the risibilities of her audience.

Persis, distracted for a moment by the false alarm of a twisting seam,
soon returned to her guns. With a skill Annabel was forced to admire,
she veiled her cruelty in compliment.

"Diantha is a pretty girl. Pretty and clever with her tongue. An
apple's got to have flavor as well as a rosy skin. There'll be lively
times at your place before long. It'll make you and Mr. Sinclair feel
young again to have courting going on in the house."

If murderous thoughts were as potent as daggers, Persis would never
have fitted another gown. Annabel was reaching the point where
self-control was difficult. Young again! Again! Even her reflection
in the mirror and the knowledge that the new dress was becoming, failed
to restore her equanimity.

Yet in the end it was Annabel who scored. For when at length she
crossed Persis' threshold, a young man happened to be passing. A
ravishing smile banished Annabel's look of sullen resentment. Her
white-gloved hand fluttered in greeting.

The young fellow swung upon his heel, his boyish face flushing in
undisguised rapture. He waited till Annabel reached the sidewalk, took
the pink-lined parasol from her hand with an air of proud possession,
and the two walked away together.

From the window Persis looked grimly after them. "Make the most of
this chance," she apostrophized the pair. "I'm getting ready to take
your case in hand."

CHAPTER IV

THE WOMAN'S CLUB

Persis Dale was under no misapprehension, regarding her standing in the
community. She fully appreciated the fact that she was a pillar of
Clematis society and would have accepted as her due the complimentary
implication of Mrs. Warren's post-card, even if its duplicates had not
offered a similar tribute to at least thirty of her acquaintance