ear?"

"I hear you, mem, but I don't know where he is."

"Then find out. There must be a telephone."

Harris scratched his head but otherwise he did nothing.

"Come!" Cassy told him. "Hurry!"

Harris shifted. "I don't know as how he'd like it. He's been that upset
these last few days. I----" He hesitated. Visibly an idea had visited
him with which he was grappling. "You're not from Miss Austen, now, are
you?"

Cassy caught at it. To confirm it would be fanciful. To deny it would be
extravagant. Choosing an in-between for the benefit of this servant whom
she knew to be English, she produced it.

"I am the Viscountess of Casa-Evora."

Harris wiped his mouth. A viscountess who had come only the other day
with a bundle, and who now forced her way in with another bundle, did
not coincide with such knowledge as he had of the nobility. But she was
certainly overbearing enough to be anybody.

He turned. "Very good, your ladyship, I'll telephone."

Don't ladyship me, Cassy was about to reply, but judging that impolitic,
she sat down.

On the train in she had debated whether she would go first to Harlem or
to Lennox and in either case what afterward she should do. She had a few
dollars which her father would need. The thought of these assets
reminded her that in changing her clothes she had omitted to change back
into her own stockings. Well, when she changed again she would return
the pair which she had on and, as she determined on that, she saw
Paliser's face as she had seen it when she threw the vase. That relapse
into the primitive shamed her. She had behaved like a fish-wife. But
though she regretted the violence, she regretted even more deeply the
vase. The destruction of art is so despicably Hun! For moxa, she evoked
the Grantly masquerade.

The entire lack of art in that seemed to her incongruous with the
surface Paliser whom she had known. But had she even known the surface
which itself was a mask? Yet behind the mask was an intelligence which
at least was not ordinary, yet which, none the less, had descended to
that! She could not understand it. She could not understand, what some
one later explained to her, that a high order of intellect does not of
itself prevent a man from soiling it and, with it, himself and his
hands. The explanation came later, when other matters were occupying her
and when Paliser, headlined in the papers, was dead.

Meanwhile the train had landed her in the Grand Central and she