refully laid her brush upon the dressing table and proceeded to
gather into a coil the shimmering mass of her fair hair. Suddenly she
was afraid, quiveringly afraid of herself, of Gerard and the next two
weeks, but most afraid of showing any change in expression to Isabel's
sharp scrutiny.

III

THE HOUSEHOLD OF ROSES

"If there is one thing meaner than another, it's _rain_," Corrie
announced generally. "I'm going out. Won't you come, Gerard?"

"If rain is the meanest thing there is, it shows real sense to go out in
it," Isabel commented, from the window-seat opposite. "That is just like
you, Corrie Rose. When I ask you to take me out on a perfectly fair day,
you won't do it."

"I?" stunned. "I ever refused----"

"Yes. Yesterday, when I asked you to take me just once around the race
course, while the cars were out practising. You know you would not. If
it is safe for you, it is safe for me. But never mind; your old pink car
won't win, anyhow. He hasn't a chance with the professional drivers, has
he, Mr. Gerard?"

"A chance?" Gerard gravely echoed. "Why, several of our best drivers are
thinking of withdrawing, since he is entered, because they feel it's no
use trying to win if he is racing."

"Oh, you're making fun! But I mean it; _I_ could race that car he is so
vain of, with my own little runabout machine."

Corrie dragged a mandolin from beneath his chair and tinkled the opening
chords of a popular melody.

"Get on your little girl's racer,
And I'll lead you for a chaser,
Down the good old Long Island course.
And before you're half through it,
Your poor car will rue it,
And you'll trade in the pieces for a horse."

The provoking improvisation ended abruptly, as Isabel's well-aimed
sofa-pillow struck the singer.

"Do you call that a ladylike retort?" Corrie queried, freeing himself
from the silken missile. "Tell her it isn't, Flavia."

"I am afraid," Flavia excused herself. "There are more cushions on that
window-seat."

"It was a soft answer, at least," Gerard laughed. "And a good shot."

"Oh, I taught her to pitch, myself. Now I'm sorry," deplored her cousin.

"Too late," Isabel returned complacently. "I called that a cushion
carom, Corrie. And my car would not fall to pieces. Flavia, he is
feeding candy to Firdousi."

Flavia looked over with the warm brightening of expression Allan Gerard
had learned to watch for when she regarded her brother, and which never