demand it. It is yours by natural right. Why is not your life
one of wildest exhilaration, conquests, pleasures? Who could deny you
anything, Mrs. Roche?"

Eleanor knows well, but is too loyal to say. She would sooner bite out
her tongue than answer "Philip!" Yet he would rob her of the
companionship of her dearest friend, would deny her intercourse with
Carol Quinton, could he hear these low-whispered words of adulation! As
she thinks of it, her husband takes the form of some heartless monster,
sapping her youth's freedom, fettering her down to his side like a
dragon-fly on a pin, she can only flap her wings faintly and gasp in vain.

"Were you sorry to see me to-day?" asks Mr. Quinton, watching the
firelight playing on Eleanor's figure.

"No, I was very miserable this afternoon; I had been crying. I like
meeting you, it does me good."

As she speaks the electric light is turned up, and a little groan issues
from Giddy.

"Just as we were all so comfortable in the gloaming!" pulling her hand
from Bertie's with a pout.

"Butterflies should like light better than darkness," he drawls.

"I want to look round now," cries Eleanor, enthusiastically viewing the
beautiful room. "Anyone could see that Giddy had something to do with
this."

"Here is a pretty little writing-table behind a screen, with a
rose-coloured lamp," says Carol. "When you are a member, Mrs. Roche,
will you sometimes write to me?"

"What should I have to say?" she asks innocently, surprised at the
suggestion.

"Tell me about yourself, if only in one line: 'I live--I breathe--I have
my being.'"

"What an odd letter!"

"I like odd things, I like odd people; I hate conventionality, and scorn
the commonplace. I know a girl who always speaks the truth, and
everybody hates her. She glories in it."

"How splendid to be hated for such a cause!" declares Eleanor.

"She never will embrace a woman she dislikes, so many people think it is
necessary, and the kiss of detestation is more fashionable in Society
than that of real affection. For myself, I think a kiss is overrated.
It should be looked on in the light of a hand-shake--harmless and
agreeable, a mark of courtesy, endearment or respect."

"Then you would have to explain it," says Eleanor. "'I kiss you because
I idolise you;' 'I kiss you because you are estimable;' 'I kiss you
because you are rich and entertain me.' No, it would never answer."

She is fingering the delicate, scen