ke the truth or fiction. "Well"--there was a touch of
impatience in her tones now--"what do you wish me to do?" She lifted a
fan from her lap, and rapidly furled and unfurled it, a sure sign of
irritation with her. "Find him a pretty doll with a blue sash and a
wreath of daisies? You must have urged many a one on him and see to what
they have driven him."

"Wait," said the old lady, laying one bony, yellow hand stiff with rings,
dusty diamonds in dim gold settings, on Ydo's arm. "Why do you take it
for granted that I have come to you to do the tearful mother, imploring
the wicked adventuress to give up her son? They do those things on the
stage, and I've never regarded the stage as a mirror of life. I have
heard more about you than you think, mademoiselle. Horace Penfield sits
in my ingle-nook. Now, what I came to find out is what you want with
Wilfred, if indeed you want him at all."

"You flatter me," said Ydo. "More, you interest me. Now, just why do you
wish to know?"

"Are you going to marry him?"

"It is evidently cards on the table with us." Ydo had recovered her good
spirits. "Truly, I have not decided. You see, madame, your Wilfred is a
big, good-natured fellow. He is like a faithful, loyal, devoted dog. You
and I being cats need neither his assistance, advice nor sympathetic
companionship. I can also say truly that his ancient name and his money
are nothing to me. But he has something I want." She rested her cheek on
her fan, a wistful note had crept into her voice, a shadow lay in her
eyes. "Ah, madame, do you not understand that we, to whom all things come
easily, are often very lonely? Life's spoiled and petted darlings, we are
of necessity isolated. We live at high pressure, absorbed in our
enthusiasms and interests, but there come moments of weariness when we
would droop on the heart that really loves us, when we would rest in that
maternal and protecting love which never criticizes, never judges or
condemns, never sees the ravages of time or the waste of beauty, never
puts upon us the crowning indignity of forgiveness--only loves. Loves,
madame, as Wilfred loves me. 'Tis the rarest thing in all the world."

"And what would you give the poor dog in exchange for this?" Mrs. Ames'
voice was dry to sarcasm. But Ydo was unmoved.

"My brains, madame, my knowledge of men, women and the world. My
diplomacy, my power of attack. Wouldn't it be a fair exchange?"

Mrs. Ames clasped her stiff hands together an