ing her pose by rising and thus spoiling
the composition. "Marcia, you're dreadfully late, as usual," a touch of
fretfulness in her voice.

"I know," replied her daughter; "and now, I'm going to leave Mr. Hayden
to you. Give him some tea, won't you? I'm dining at the Habershams, you
know, and he will drive down with me after a while."

"Of course I'll give Mr. Hayden some tea. Send in some hot water,
Marcia." She leaned forward, still careful not to move her feet and
fussed with the tea things on the table by her side. "I am very glad to
see you," she murmured again. "Ah, Mr. Hayden, if it were not for my
friends I should be a very lonely woman. You understand, of course, that
I do not complain. Marcia is the dearest girl that ever was, so lovely
and attractive. Oh, dear, yes. But," with an upward glance of
resignation, "quite young people are apt to be thoughtless, you know, and
Marcia's social life is so much to her, and indeed, I am selfish enough
to be truly glad that it is so; it really is a great bond between dear
Wilfred and herself; but of course it leaves me much alone; and it is not
good for me to be thrown back on myself and my own sad thoughts so much.
Mr. Oldham always recognized that fact. 'Change, constant diversion is an
Absolute necessity to one of your sensitive, high-strung nature,' he
would so often say, but," with a long-drawn sigh, "no one thinks enough
about me to feel that way now."

"Don't say that," said Hayden cheerfully. "I may not be any one, but I've
been thinking about you. Look! I carried this enormous bundle through the
streets just for you. Be careful. It's heavy."

She flushed with pleasure through her delicately applied rouge, and
stretching out her hands for her gift began eagerly to unwind the various
tissue-papers which concealed it. The last of these discarded, she placed
the basket in the middle of the table and spent herself in ecstatic
phrases, melting from pose to pose of graceful admiration.

"Ah, Mr. Hayden," with one of her archest glances, "you remind me so much
of Mr. Oldham." Hayden had a swift, mental picture of that grim old
pirate of finance, as represented by his portraits and photographs, his
shrewd, rugged old face surrounded by Horace Greeley whiskers. "He never
came home without bringing me something. Sometimes it was just a flower,
or some fruit, and again it was a jewel. You can't fancy, Mr. Hayden, no
words of mine can express to you his constant thought a