the Austens', had given her a few hours to herself.

Now, on this afternoon, he was again in town.

The air was very still. Afar, a train bellowed, rumbled, died away. From
the garage came the bark of a dog, caught up and repeated on the
hillside beyond. On the lawn, a man in an apron was at work. Otherwise
the air was still, fragrant, freighted with spring.

Cassy, turning from the table, went to the mirror again and tilted the
hat. However unbecoming, it was certainly smart, and Cassy wondered what
her father would think of Mrs. Monty Paliser.

In the spaciousness of the name, momentarily she lost herself. It is
appalling to be a snob. But there are attributes that pour balm all over
you. In the deference of the bored yet gracious young women who, with
robes et manteaux, had come all the way from Fifth Avenue, there had
been a flagon or two of that balm. In the invariable "Thank you, mem's"
of the Paliser personnel there had been more. It is appalling to be a
snob. There are perfumes that appeal.

Then also, particularly after Harlem, the great, grave, silent house had
a charm that was enveloping, almost enchanted. Apparently uncommanded,
it ran itself, noiselessly, in ordered grooves. Cassy fancied that
somewhere about there must be a majordomo who competently saw to
everything and kept out of the way. But she did not know. In her own
rooms she was now at home, as she was also at home in the state chambers
on the floor below. In regard to the latter, she had an idea--entirely
correct, by the way--that at Lisbon, the royal palace--when there was
one--could not have been more suave. But the rest of the house was as
yet unexplored, though in regard to the upper storey she had another
idea, that there was a room there close-barred, packed with coffins.

The idea delighted her. In this Palace of the White Cat it was the note
macabre, the proper note, the note that synchronised the circumambient
enchantments. In the historical nights of which Perrault told, the
princess had but a gesture to make, the offender sank dead. At once a
bier was produced, the corpse was hurried away, and the veils of charm
restored fell languorously.

Yet, in that historical epoch, there subsisted--perhaps as a reminder of
the vanities even of fairyland--the rose-leaf suggestively crumpled. The
crumple affected Cassy but far less than she had expected. Paliser had
been very gentlemanly. He had deferred to her in all things, agreed with
her