you lost all touch
with the world?"

She came slowly forward into the warm circle of light.

"I don't seem to care for people and things as I used to. Look at me.
I'm not the same Myra."

She stared at him with a deep, searching expression, and what she
saw drew her up with a sudden movement of decision. Her voice, when
next she spoke, was lighter, more animated.

"You're right, dear. We're growing poky. I tell you what we'll do,"
she continued in a playful manner. Her lips smiled, and her eyes
watched as she knelt beside him, her head tilted, her fingers
straying over the rough surface of his coat. He never dressed for
dinner in these days. "We'll give a party, shall we?" she said.
"And then everyone will know that we're still--alive."

If she had wanted to test his state of mind, she could not have
found a better way. Instantly he was all eagerness. Nothing would do
but that they should plan the party at once, set the date, make out
a list of friends to be invited.

She was ready with pad and pencil and her old address-book, which
had lain for many days untouched in her desk.

"Shall we have Frances Maury?" she suggested. "She'll remind you of
me as I was before we married."

"What a gorgeous little devil you were!" he murmured reminiscently.

She wished he had not said that. Yet how absurd it was to be jealous
of oneself!

Well, they would entertain again, since it pleased him. But she had
lost her social instinct. This party seemed a great enterprise. She
had to pretend to an enthusiasm which she did not really feel.
"Am I growing old?" she wondered more than once. She had to confess
to a panic of shyness when she thought of herself as hostess. That
was all she would be this time. Frances Maury held the role of prima
donna.

There were no regrets to her invitations. They came, these old
friends and acquaintances, with familiar voices and gestures. They
seemed genuinely glad to see her, but they did not spare her. She
had grown a little stouter, had she not? Ah, well happy people
risked that. And they did not need to be told how happy she was. In
quite an old-fashioned way, too. Myra domesticated--how quaint that
was! Did she sing any more? No? What a pity!

Her rooms had lain quiet too long. So much noise deafened her. She
was suddenly aware that she _had_ grown stouter. Her new gown, made
for the occasion, should have been more cleverly designed. Martigues
as much as told her so. She had, also, lo