ations and former intimate acquaintances? . . . for the very
sensible reason that while she had grown richer, they had grown poorer.
But now Mrs. Rush-Marvelle sailed up in all her glory, with her
good-natured smile and matronly air. She was a privileged person, and
she put her arm round Thelma's waist.

"You must come to me, my dear," she said with real kindness--her
motherly heart had warmed to the girl's beauty and innocence,--"I knew
Philip when he was quite a boy. He will tell you what a dreadfully old
woman I am! You must try to like me for his sake."

Thelma smiled radiantly. "I always wish to like Philip's friends," she
said frankly. "I do hope I shall please you!"

A pang of remorse smote Mrs. Rush-Marvelle's heart as she remembered how
loth she had been to meet Philip's "peasant" wife,--she
hesitated,--then, yielding to her warm impulse, drew the girl closer and
kissed her fair rose-tinted cheek.

"You please everybody, my child," she said honestly. "Philip is a lucky
man! Now I'll say good night, for it is getting late,--I'll write to you
to-morrow and fix a day for you to come and lunch with me."

"But you must also come and see Philip," returned Thelma, pressing her
hand.

"So I will--so I will!" and Mrs. Rush-Marvelle nodded beamingly, and
made her way up to Lady Winsleigh, saying, "Bye-bye, Clara! Thanks for a
most charming evening!"

Clara pouted. "Going already, Mimsey?" she queried,--then, in a lower
tone, she said, "Well! what do you think of her?"

"A beautiful child--no more!" answered Mrs. Marvelle,--then, studying
with some gravity the brilliant brunette face before her, she added in a
whisper, "Leave her alone, Clara,--don't make her miserable! You know
what I mean! It wouldn't take much to break her heart."

Clara laughed harshly and played with her fan.

"Dear me, Mimsey! . . . you are perfectly outrageous! Do you think I'm an
ogress ready to eat her up? On the contrary, I mean to be a friend to
her."

Mrs. Marvelle still looked grave.

"I'm glad to hear it," she said; "only some friends are worse than
declared enemies."

Lady Winsleigh shrugged her shoulders.

"Go along, Mimsey,--go home to bed!" she exclaimed impatiently. "You are
_insense_! I hate sentimental philosophy and copy-book platitudes!" She
laughed again and folded her hands with an air of mock penitence,
"There! I didn't mean to be rude! Good-night, dear old darling!"

"Good-night, Clara!" and Mrs. Marvelle, sum