terns shed a softly pleasant light upon the porch and
the lawn at its foot. Suzanne Gerard and Marie Dresser made a most
attractive picture, one in a low chair, the other upon a pile of cushions
on the step. Suzanne lightly picked a mandolin. Marie was singing softly:

"Down through the lane
Come I again
Seeking, my love, for you;
Run to me, dear,
Losing all fear,
Love and my life will be true."

It was one of the songs of the summer--foolish words, seductive
music--everybody hummed it half the time. Roger Barnes smiled to himself,
remembering where he had heard it last.

"Come here and give account," commanded Suzanne the instant he appeared.
"Every unmarried man vanished the moment twilight fell. You are the last
to show your face. I challenge you, one and all, to swear that you have
not been within sight of a certain small brown house at the foot of the
hill since supper."

Her voice was music; in her eyes was laughter. Marie sang on, pointing her
words with smiles at one and another of the culprits.

From his seat on the threshold of the door, where his head rested against
Juliet's knee as she sat behind him, Anthony laughed to himself. Then he
turned his head and whispered to his wife: "Feel the claws through the
velvet? Poor boys, they have my sympathy."

XVIII.--AN UNKNOWN QUANTITY

"Rachel," said Juliet decisively, next morning, "to-night is the last of
my house party, and I refuse to let you off. I'm asking ten or twelve more
people out from town. You must spend this evening with my guests, or
forfeit my friendship."

She was smiling as she said it, but her tone was not to be denied.

"If that is the alternative," Rachel answered, returning the smile with an
affectionate look of a sort which neither Louis Lockwood nor Stevens
Cathcart nor Dr. Roger Barnes had ever seen on her face--though they had
dreamed of it--"of course I shall stay. But I'll tell you frankly I would
rather not."

"Why not, Rachel?"

"I think you know why not, Mrs. Robeson," Rachel answered.

"Yes, I know why not," admitted Juliet. "Girls are queer things, Ray. They
defeat their own ends all the time--lots of them. Suzanne and Marie are
dear girls, with ever so many nice things about them, but they don't--they
don't know enough not to pursue, chase, run down, the object of their
desires. And, o