plained by
that, but suddenly Joan became more daring--she vividly recalled much
that she had heard Doris say in defence of the old woman whom Nancy and
she feared and often ridiculed.

It took but a twist to change a private incident into a blurred but
amazing suggestion.

Mrs. Tweksbury was frankly and angrily impressed.

When passing from the room Miss Gordon spoke to her:

"Do you believe in my Veiled Lady?" she asked.

"Certainly not, Miss Gordon, but I'm--afraid of her! You had better
guard her somewhat--or she'll be taken seriously."

"We'll never see _her_ again!" prophesied Joan, chuckling over her
victory with the old lady; "I've evened up for Nan and me!" she thought,
and then the incident passed from her mind.

But not so easily did the matter go from the confused thoughts of Mrs.
Tweksbury.

"I dare say," she finally concluded, "that if one could tear the veil
from the face of that impudent little minx one would discover the
smartest of the objectionable Smart Set. The girl should be curbed--how
dare she!"--here Emily Tweksbury flushed a rich mahogany red as she
recalled some of the cleverly concealed details of, what seemed to her,
the most private affairs.

"Outrageous!" she snorted, and vowed that she deserved all that she had
received for supporting the new-fangled nonsense that was spreading like
a new social evil in the heart of all she held sacred.

Patricia Leigh had not been so interested in years as she was in Joan's
affairs at the Brier Bush. They smacked of high adventure and thrilled
the girl.

To Sylvia they were rather grovelling means to a legitimate end. She
scowled at Joan's vivid description of her experiences and warned her to
trust not too fully to her veil.

"But it's a splendid lark!" Patricia burst in, defensively; "it's Art
spelled in capitals. Joan, take my advice and get points about the
swells and scare them stiff!"

"Pat, you should be ashamed!" Sylvia scowled darkly.

"Yes?" purred Patricia. Then: "I see the finish of Plain John's romance,
my sinister Syl, if you don't limber up your spine. Genius, love, and
unbending virtue never pull together."

And then--it was when March was dreariest and drippiest--Kenneth Raymond
strode--that was the only word to describe his long-legged advance--into
the Brier Bush for luncheon with Mrs. Tweksbury.

He had listened to variations of Mrs. Tweksbury's first visit to the tea
room with varying degrees of impatience.

He