rk whose tinge
of malice was so mild that it was felt by all to constitute an official
sanction of her social rehabilitation.

Portia honestly enjoyed all that, but Rose went back to the hotel
feeling pretty blue. (They were stopping at the hotel. The twins alone,
to say nothing of Miss French and herself, would have been too much for
the modest confines of the bungalow.) She wished she could have a good
long talk, to-night, with Rodney.

She had a sense of somebody, away up above all mundane affairs--not
responsible for them, perhaps, but capable, at all events, of thoroughly
taking them in--smiling at them all with a sort of ferocious cynicism.
In the foreground of this impression were the good friends--the really
good friends she had just been telling Portia about, who had taken her
back with so warm a welcome--because she'd succeeded; got away with it!

It was with a deeper feeling of melancholy that she thought of Portia
and her mother. Portia, who had fought so gallantly and deserved so
much, thwarted, withered, huddling her ashes around her so that her coal
of fire might never be fanned into flame again. Her mother, living
gently in the afterglow of an outworn gospel. Must every one come to an
end like that when some initial store of energy was spent? Begin walling
himself in against life? Stuffing new experiences into pigeonholes,
unscrutinized? Would the time come when little Portia would have to
begin treating _her_ with the same tender-patronage that Rose felt now
for her mother? Would little Portia, some day, smile over her like that,
and wonder whether she'd ever--really lived?

She did wish she could have a talk with Rodney.

The telephone switchboard in the lobby gave her an idea. It was five
o'clock, now; seven in Chicago. He'd just be sitting down to dinner, all
by himself, poor dear, most likely, and wishing for a talk with her.
Well, why not?

She rather electrified the hotel office when she put in that call. The
whole place wore an important air for the next half-hour. She went up to
her room to wait for it, and before the line was put through she thought
of something that would have prevented her doing it if she'd thought in
time. He'd probably think something horrible had happened to one of
them. So the moment she heard his voice--it was faint and far-away but
clear enough that she could detect the straining urgency of it--she
said:

"It's all right, Roddy. There isn't a thing the matter. D