am justice, but Flint was not in a judicial mood.)
Then this crack-brained girl with her foolish fake of a theory--and he
had been idiot enough to fall into this trap, and now Winifred would
think he had boasted of Nora Costello as a conquest, perhaps bragged
about saving her life. Oh, the whole thing was past endurance!
Meanwhile everything around moved on mechanically. He heard his host
say impatiently, "My dear, if you keep that epigramme of lamb waiting
much longer, we'd better give up dining and take to holding hands all
round."

At this there was a general taking up of forks and a subdued buzz of
conversation. It was rather a relief when the candle-shade took fire
and Flint had an excuse for rising to seize it before the butler could
reach it.

The dinner ended at last, though it seemed as if it never would. As he
held aside the velvet curtains for the ladies to pass, Flint strove to
catch Winifred's eyes, to judge, if he might, what impression Graham's
remark had made; but Blathwayt held her in talk till the threshold was
reached, and the curtain dropped behind her without a glance in
Flint's direction.

She held her head a little higher than usual as she moved beside Mrs.
Graham into the music-room. A wave of contempt was sweeping over her,
as she reviewed the dinner, its gilding, its gluttony, and its
unspeakable dulness, and she felt that she had sold her birthright of
self-respect for a mess of pottage.

Miss Wabash sat down at the piano and sang "Oh, Promise Me," and one
or two other gems from DeKoven's latest opera, and then the ladies
adjourned once more to the library.

The Grahams' library was a large square room, diversified by two
shallow bay-windows such as only a corner house permits. It was ceiled
and finished in heavy Flemish oak, and the walls above the low
bookcases were hung with tapestry. Easy-chairs and softly upholstered
divans filled every nook and corner. It was really, Winifred decided,
an ideal library,--or would have been if there had been any books
behind the silk curtains hung over the shelves.

As they entered the room Miss Wabash drew Winifred to a seat near
herself on the sofa.

"Green mint or Chartreuse?" the hostess asked, as the little
ice-filled glasses were set on the low table by her side.

Winifred declined the cordials, but sat sipping the coffee out of the
tiny Dresden cup, while she listened to the wearisome platitudes of
Mrs. Graham and her guests. From time to