er excursions from studio to studio--her luncheons with
this lady who had to play at a matinee, and her dinners with that singer
who had an evening concert--had seen enough of her friend's handsome
daughter to conceive for her an inclination of such violence and
assurance as only Flavia could afford. The fact that Imogen had shown
rather marked capacity in certain esoteric lines of scholarship, and
had decided to specialize in a well-sounding branch of philology at
the Ecole des Chartes, had fairly placed her in that category of
"interesting people" whom Flavia considered her natural affinities, and
lawful prey.

When Imogen stepped upon the station platform she was immediately
appropriated by her hostess, whose commanding figure and assurance of
attire she had recognized from a distance. She was hurried into a high
tilbury and Flavia, taking the driver's cushion beside her, gathered up
the reins with an experienced hand.

"My dear girl," she remarked, as she turned the horses up the street, "I
was afraid the train might be late. M. Roux insisted upon coming up by
boat and did not arrive until after seven."

"To think of M. Roux's being in this part of the world at all, and
subject to the vicissitudes of river boats! Why in the world did he come
over?" queried Imogen with lively interest. "He is the sort of man who
must dissolve and become a shadow outside of Paris."

"Oh, we have a houseful of the most interesting people," said Flavia,
professionally. "We have actually managed to get Ivan Schemetzkin. He
was ill in California at the close of his concert tour, you know, and he
is recuperating with us, after his wearing journey from the coast. Then
there is Jules Martel, the painter; Signor Donati, the tenor; Professor
Schotte, who has dug up Assyria, you know; Restzhoff, the Russian
chemist; Alcee Buisson, the philologist; Frank Wellington, the novelist;
and Will Maidenwood, the editor of _Woman_. Then there is my second
cousin, Jemima Broadwood, who made such a hit in Pinero's comedy last
winter, and Frau Lichtenfeld. _Have_ you read her?"

Imogen confessed her utter ignorance of Frau Lichtenfeld, and Flavia
went on.

"Well, she is a most remarkable person; one of those advanced German
women, a militant iconoclast, and this drive will not be long enough to
permit of my telling you her history. Such a story! Her novels were the
talk of all Germany when I was there last, and several of them have been
suppressed--a