The evening wrap which Jane wore with her old white chiffon was of a bright Madonna blue with a black fur collar. Jane, as has been said, loved clear color, and when she dyed dingy things she brought them forth lovely to the eye and tremendously picturesque.

The first effect on Frederick Towne of her bobbed black head above the fur collar was enchanting. It was only later that he discovered her shabbiness. That initial glimpse had, however, shown him what money could do for her.

Frederick’s house was a place where polished floors seemed to dissolve in pools of golden light, where a grand staircase led up to balconies, where the ceilings were almost incredibly high, the vistas almost incredibly remote. Frederick, coming towards her through those pools of golden light—blonde, big and smiling, brought a swift memory of another blonde and heroic figure, not in evening clothes—but in silver armor—“Nun sei bedankt, mein lieber Schwan,” Lohengrin! That was it.

“A fat Lohengrin,” she amended, maliciously.

Unaware of this devastating estimate, Frederick welcomed her with the air of a Cophetua. He was unconscious of his attitude of condescension. He was much attracted, but he knew, of course, that his interest in her would be a great thing for the little girl.

And he was interested. A queer thing had happened to him—a thing which clashed with all his theories, broke down the logic of his previous arguments. He had fallen in love with little Jane Barnes, at first sight if you please—like a crude boy. And he wanted her for his wife. It was an almost unbelievable situation. There had been so many women he might have married. Lovelier women than Jane, wittier, more distinguished, richer—of more assured social standing. He could have had the pick of them, yet not one of them had he wanted. Here was little Jane Barnes, bobbed hair, boyish, slender, quaint in her cheap clothes, and he could see no one else at the head of his table, no one else by his side in the big car, no one else to share the glamorous days of honeymoon, and the life which was to follow.

He had always had his own way, and he intended to have it now. Edith had, of course, thwarted him in some things, and she was still on his hands. Yet the matter would, without doubt, right itself. There were other eligible suitors; it was not to be supposed that a beauty and an heiress would remain long unwed.

And in the meantime, he would set himself to the wooing of Jane. The end was, of course, inevitable. But Jane would not fall into his arms at the first word. Her attitude towards him was absolutely impersonal. She had no blushes, no small flirtatious tricks. She was as cool as some lovely garden flower with the morning dew upon it. But he fancied she might flame.

And so when young Baldwin had telephoned of Edith’s plans, there had leaped into Towne’s mind the realization of his opportunity. He would see Jane among his household gods. And he would see her alone. He had sent Briggs in time to have her there before the others arrived.

And now Fate had played further into his hands. “I’ve had another message from Edith,” he told her; “we’ll have to eat dinner without them. The fog caught them south of Alexandria, and they went into a ditch. They will eat at the nearest hotel while the car is being fixed up.”

“Baldy’s car always breaks at psychological moments,” said Jane. “If it hadn’t broken down on the bridge, he wouldn’t have found your niece.”

“And I wouldn’t have known you”—he was smiling at her. “Who would ever have believed that so much hung on so little.”

And now Waldron, the butler, announced dinner—and Jane entering the dining-room felt dwarfed by the Gargantuan tables, the high-backed ecclesiastical chairs, the tall silver candlesticks with their orange candles.

“Your color,” Towne told her. “You see I remembered your knitting——”“I’m crazy about brilliant wools,” said Jane; “some day I am going to open a shop and sell them.”

But he knew that she would not open a shop. “You were like some lovely bird,—an oriole, perhaps, with your orange and black.”

“I dye things,” said Jane, frankly; “you should see some of my clothes when they come out. Joseph’s coat isn’t in it.”

Frederick liked her frankness. He knew people who would have been ashamed to admit their poverty before Waldron and the maids. To Jane, servants had neither eyes nor ears—in that she showed her accustomedness. People who had never been served were self-conscious.

“The next time you see this dress,” Jane was saying, “it will be as blue as my coat. And I’ll have a girdle of copper ribbon, and Baldy will paint my shoes with copper paint.”

She smiled at him with her chin tilted in her bird-like way. She was really having the time of her life. She was thrilled and fascinated by the beauty of her surroundings, and gradually Frederick began to take on something of the fascination.

Against his own background, he showed at his best. Without one word of fulsome flattery, he made little Jane feel that she was an honored guest. He talked extremely well, and though she was alone with him put her absolutely at her ease.The food was delicious. There had been a celestial canape, a heavenly soup, fish that were pale pink and smothered in tartare sauce.

“He is awfully nice,” Jane told herself out of her supreme content, as Waldron passed squabs on a silver platter. She referred of course to Towne and not to Waldron but, remembering her own old Sophy’s shortcomings, she found time, also, to commend to herself the butler’s expertness.

After dinner they sat in the great drawing-room—a portentous place—with low-hung crystal chandeliers—pale rugs—pale walls—with one corner redeemed from the general chilliness by a fireplace of yellow Italian marble, and a huge screen of peacock feathers in a mahogany frame.

“I call this room the Ice Palace,” Frederick told her. “Mother furnished it in the early eighties—and she would never change it. And now I rather hate to have it different. I warmed this corner with the fireplace and the screen. Edith always sits in the library on the other side of the hall, but Mother and I had our coffee here, and I prefer to continue the old custom.”

Jane’s eyes opened wide. “Don’t you and your niece drink your coffee together?”

“Usually, but there have been times,” he laughed as he said it, “when each of us has sat on opposite sides of the hall in lonely state.”

Jane laughed too. “Baldy and I do things like that.”“And now,” he said, “we can talk about Edith. I suppose I’ll have to kill the fatted calf. That’s what your brother said.”

“That sounds like Baldy.”

“Does it? Well, he told me the thing that decided her was some friends who came out and saw her in the dining-room. She’s been all the time with Martha, her mother’s old cook, whose husband keeps a country hotel beyond Alexandria. And Adelaide Laramore and Eloise Harper and a couple of men were lunching there. I am sorry it happened. Eloise is a regular town-crier. She’ll tell the world.”

He beat his fist against the arm of his chair. “I hate to have the thing in the papers.”

“It will soon die down,” said Jane, “when she comes home.”

“I shall be glad to have her. But I don’t quite see why I am to kill the fatted calf. She won’t act in the least like a prodigal.”

“Why should you care how she acts? You want her back. Isn’t that enough?”

He liked her crisp common sense. Her fearless expression of opinion. Most of the women he knew were afraid not to agree with him. That was the trouble with Adelaide. She leaned to him always like a lily, charming, feminine, soft as milk. But Jane did not lean. She was, he told himself, a cup of elixir held to his lips. He drank as it were of her youth.They finished their coffee and he smoked a cigar. Edith and Baldy telephoned that the thing was more serious than they had anticipated. That perhaps he had better send Briggs.

“So that means I’m going to have you to myself for an hour longer,” Frederick told Jane. “I hope you are as happy in the prospect as I am.”

“I am having a joyous time. I feel like Cinderella at the ball.”

He laughed at that. “You’re a refreshing child, Jane.” He had never before called her by her first name.

“Am I? But I’m not a child. I’m as old as the hills.”

“Not in years.”

“In wisdom. I know how to make ends meet, and how to order meals, and how to plan my own dresses, and a lot of things that your Edith doesn’t have to think about.”

“And yet you are happy.”

“I’ll say I am.”

He laughed but did not continue the subject. “I’ve a rather wonderful collection of earrings. Would you like to look at them? Queer fad, isn’t it? But I’ve picked them up everywhere.”

“Why earrings?”

“Other things are commonplace—brooches, necklaces, tiaras. But there’s romance in the jewels that women have worn in their ears. You’ll see.”

He went into another room and brought back a tray. It was lined with velvet and the earrings were set up on tiny cushions. It was a unique display. Cameos from ancient Rome, acorns of human hair in the horrible taste of the sixties—gypsy hoops of gold—coral roses in delicate fretted wreaths—old French jewels—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and seed pearls, larger pearls set alone to show their beauty, and a sparkling array of modern things, diamonds in platinum—long pendants of jade and jet—opals dripping like liquid fire along slender chains.

She hung over them.

“Which do you like best?” he asked.

“The pearls?”

He was doubtful. “Not the white ones. These——” he picked up a pair of sapphires set in seed pearls—rather barbaric things that hung down for an inch or more. “They’ll suit your style. Have you ever worn earrings?”

“No.”

“Try them.”

He helped her to adjust them—and his hand touched her smooth warm cheek. He was conscious of her closeness, but gave no sign.

There was a little mirror above the mantel. “Look at yourself,” he said.

She tilted her head so that the jewels shook. The blue lights of the stones made her skin incandescent.

Frederick surveyed her critically. “You ought to have a more sophisticated gown. Silver brocade with a wisp of a train.”

“It changes me, doesn’t it? I am not sure that I like them.”

“I do. Edith has always wanted those earrings. But I won’t let her have them. I am saving them for—my wife.”

“You ought to have wives to wear them—like Solomon.”

“Do you mean that you are recommending it?”

“Of course not. Only one woman couldn’t ever wear them all, could she?”

“She might.” Again he was pleased by her lack of self-consciousness. What a joy she was after Adelaide.

As if the name had brought her, a voice spoke from the door. “I wouldn’t let Waldron announce me, Ricky; may I come in?”

She stopped as she saw Jane. “Oh, you’re not alone?”

“This is Miss Barnes, Adelaide. I think you met her brother to-day at luncheon. Edith telephoned that you and Eloise had found her.”

“That’s what I came about, to warn you. Eloise has the reporters on her trail. She’ll be over in a minute. But the harm will be done, I am afraid, before you can stop her.”

“Oh, I’m resigned. Edith’s coming back to-night. Miss Barnes’ brother is bringing her.”

“Really?” Adelaide Laramore was appraising Jane. A shabby child. From the threshold she had had a moment of jealousy. But the moment was past. Frederick was extremely fastidious. He adored beauty and this Barnes child was not beautiful.

What Mrs. Laramore failed to see was that Jane’s beauty was of a very special kind. It was not standardized. It was not marcelled and cold-creamed, and rouged and powdered. But it had to do with lighted-up eyes, with youth and a free spirit. And it was these things in her which had attracted Frederick.

Jane was unfastening the earrings. “Aren’t they heavenly, Mrs. Laramore?”

“The sapphires?” Mrs. Laramore sat down on the couch. Her evening wrap slipped back, showing her white neck. Her fair hair was swept up from her forehead. She had a long face, with pink cheeks and pencilled eyebrows. She was like a portrait on porcelain, and she knew it, and emphasized the effect. “The sapphires? Yes. They’re the choice of the lot.”

She went on to speak of Eloise. “She is simply hopeless. She has told the most hectic tales and all the papers have sent men out to the Inn.”

“Well, they escaped. They started early and have been hung up at Alexandria.”

“Eloise and Benny and the Captain dined with me. She was still telephoning when I left. I told her that I did not sanction it, and that I should come straight over and tell you. But she laughed and said she didn’t care. That she thought it was great fun and that you were a good sport.”

“I shan’t see her,” shortly; “she ought to know better. Setting reporters on Edith like a pack of wolves.”

“I told her how you would feel,” Adelaide reiterated.

“I should see her if I were you, Mr. Towne,” said a crisp, young voice.

Adelaide turned with a gasp. With her slippered feet crossed in front of her, Jane looked like a child. For the first time Mrs. Laramore got a good view of those candid gray eyes. They had a queer effect on her. Eyes like that were most uncommon. Fearless. The girl was not afraid of Frederick. She was not afraid of anyone.

“Why should I see her?” Frederick demanded.

“Won’t it just add to her sense of melodrama if you don’t? And why should you care? Your niece is coming home. And that’s the end of it.”

“You mean,” Frederick demanded, “that I am to carry it off with an air?”

Jane nodded. “Make comedy of it instead of tragedy.”

Adelaide slipping out of her wrap was revealed as elegant and distinguished in silver and black.

“May I have a cigarette, Ricky, to settle my nerves? Eloise is tremendously upsetting.” Adelaide was plaintive.Jane watched her with lively curiosity. The women she knew did not smoke. Baldy’s flappers did, but they were abnormal and of a new generation. Mrs. Laramore was old enough to be Jane’s mother, and Jane had a feeling ... that mothers ... shouldn’t smoke....

But none the less, Adelaide Laramore and her exotic ways were amusing. She had a brittle and artificial look, like the Manchu lady in the Museum, or something in wax.

Jane was brought back from her meditation by the riotous entrance of Eloise and the two men.

“I knew Adelaide was telling tales.”

“I told you I was coming, Eloise.”

Eloise stared at Jane when Frederick presented her. “You look like your brother. Twins?”

“No.” Jane decided that she liked Miss Harper better than she did Mrs. Laramore—which wasn’t saying—much....

“The reporters are on their way to Alexandria—full cry.” Eloise all in emerald green, with her red hair in a classic coiffure, was like some radiant witch, exultant of evil. “You mustn’t scold me, Frederick. It was terribly exciting to tell them, and I adore excitement.”

“They aren’t there.”

“Where are they?”

Frederick chanted composedly, “We three know ... but we will never tell....”

“Adelaide will, when I get her alone.”“I will not.”

“Then Miss Barnes will. Do you know how young you look, Miss Barnes? I feel as if you’d tell me anything for a stick of candy.”

They roared at that. And Jane said, “Nobody ever made me do anything I didn’t want to do.”

And now Benny and the Captain looked at her, and looked again. What a voice the child had, and eyes!

Eloise, on the couch, hugged her knees and surveyed her gold slippers. “They are putting my picture in the paper and Adelaide’s. They saw one on my desk——”

Mrs. Laramore cried out, “Benny, why did you let her do it?” and there was a great uproar—in which Eloise could be heard saying:

“And they are going to have a picture of the Inn, and one of your brother if they can get it, Miss Barnes.”

Jane began to feel uncomfortable. She was, she told herself, as much out of place as a pussy-cat in a Zoo. These women and these men reminded her somehow of the great sleek animals who snarled at each other in the Rock Creek cages. Frederick did not snarl. But she had a feeling he might if Eloise kept at him much longer.

It was in the midst of the hubbub that Edith entered. She walked in among them as composedly as she had faced them at the Inn.

“Hello,” she said, “you sound like a jazz band.” She went straight up to Frederick and kissed him. “I suppose Eloise is shouting the news to the world.” She tucked her hand in his arm. “There are more than a million reporters outside. Mr. Barnes is keeping them at bay.”

“Where did they find you?”

“Heard of us, I suppose, at the Alexandria hotel. We didn’t realize it until we reached here, and then they piled out and began to ask questions.”

Frederick lifted her hand from his arm. “I’ll go and send them away.”

Eloise jumped up. “I’ll go with you.”

And then Frederick snarled, “Stay here.”

But neither of them went, for Baldy entered, head cocked, eyes alight—Jane knew the signs.

“They’ve gone,” he said. “I told you I’d get rid of them, Miss Towne.”

He nodded to them all. Absolutely at his ease, lifted above them all by the exaltation of his mood. Finer, Jane told herself, than any of them—his beautiful youth against their world-weariness.

Edith was smiling at Jane. “I knew you at once. You are like your brother.”

They were alike. A striking pair as they stood together. “It is because of Mr. Barnes and his sister that we got in touch with Edith,” Frederick explained. He had regained his genial manner.

“Oh, really.” Adelaide knew that she and her friends ought to go at once. Edith looked tired, and Eloise at moments like this was impossible. But she hated to leave anyone else in the field. “Can’t I give you a lift?” she asked Jane, sweetly, “you and your brother.”

But it was Frederick who answered. “Miss Barnes lives at Sherwood Park. Briggs will take her out.”

So Adelaide went away, and Eloise and the two men, and Edith turned to her uncle and said, “I’m sorry.”

Her face was white and her eyes were shining, and all of a sudden she reached up her arms and put them about his neck and sobbed as if her heart would break.

And then, and not until then, little Jane knew that Edith was not like one of the animals at the Zoo.