ys spoken of as one speaks of a pet vice. Not
to know Mrs. Sin was to be outside the magic circle which embraced the
exclusively smart people who practiced the latest absurdities.

The so-called artistic temperament is compounded of great strength and
great weakness; its virtues are whiter than those of ordinary people and
its vices blacker. For such a personality Mrs. Sin embodied the idea of
secret pleasure. Her bold good looks repelled Rita, but the knowledge in
her dark eyes was alluring.

"I arrange for you for Saturday night," she said. "Cy Kilfane is coming
with Mollie, and you bring--"

"Oh," replied Rita hesitatingly, "I am sorry you have gone to so much
trouble."

"No trouble, my dear," Mrs. Sin assured her. "Just a little matter of
business, and you can pay the bill when it suits you."

"I am frightfully excited!" cried Mollie Gretna. "It is so nice of you
to have asked me to join your party. Of course Cy goes practically every
week, but I have always wanted another girl to go with. Oh, I shall
be in a perfectly delicious panic when I find myself all among funny
Chinamen and things! I think there is something so magnificently
wicked-looking about a pigtail--and the very name of Limehouse thrills
me to the soul!"

That fixity of purpose which had enabled Rita to avoid the cunning
snares set for her feet and to snatch triumph from the very cauldron of
shame without burning her fingers availed her not at all in dealing with
Mrs. Sin. The image of Monte receded before this appeal to the secret
pleasure-loving woman, of insatiable curiosity, primitive and unmoral,
who dwells, according to a modern cynic philosopher, within every
daughter of Eve touched by the fire of genius.

She accepted the arrangement for Saturday, and before her visitors had
left the dressing-room her mind was busy with plausible deceits to
cover the sojourn in Chinatown. Something of Mollie Gretna's foolish
enthusiasm had communicated itself to Rita.

Later in the evening Sir Lucien called, and on hearing of the scheme
grew silent. Rita glancing at his reflection in the mirror, detected a
black and angry look upon his face. She turned to him.

"Why, Lucy," she said, "don't you want me to go?"

He smiled in his sardonic fashion.

"Your wishes are mine, Rita," he replied.

She was watching him closely.

"But you don't seem keen," she persisted. "Are you angry with me?"

"Angry?"

"We are still friends, aren't we?"

"Of cour