At the beginning of June Jack received a letter in a well-known hand-writing from a familiar address.

"Pump Court, Temple, E. C.

"Have you ever done your duty by the University of Oxford? I mean, have you ever taken your M. A.? I haven't, though I ought to have years ago, and I'm sure you haven't, either. What do you think about going up next Degree Day? I'll find out when it is and order rooms and pack your suit-case and take it to Paddington and buy a ticket and generally nursemaid you, as I used to do in the days before you were a social success. I never see you nowadays either on the Winchester train or in London; they say that you have deserted your various clubs for the gilded saloons of Mayfair. Let me know what's happened to you. Ever yours,

Eric Lane."

Jack welcomed the diversion and wrote an enthusiastic acceptance. For some months he had been too much occupied with Barbara to spare regrets for Eric, but he was sorry to feel that they were drifting apart. And the invitation gave him an excuse for spending a long week-end out of London. Since the Ross House ball he had held no communication with Barbara; since his unburdening of soul to Jim Loring he had avoided every one who might ask him why he was in hiding or report to her that he had been tracked down. Lady Knightrider tried once or twice to secure him for dinner, but after a few failures she accepted his plea of private work. And very soon the inquisitive had other food for their curiosity. Arden concentrated his attention on a possible match between Loring and Miss Hunter-Oakleigh; Summertown threw needful light on a newly discovered intrigue between Mrs. Welman and Sir Deryk Lancing; and Deganway confined his energies to scandalous speculation about a motor tour which Sir Adolf Erckmann was conducting in South Europe with his sister, young Webster, Sonia Dainton and others of less stable reputation.

"Delighted to come" Jack wrote to Eric. "Let me know the day and the train; everything else I leave to you. It's ages since I saw you."

However far the gossip had spread, it was unlikely to have reached Pump Court. But, if he felt secure from impertinent questions, Jack would have paid a high price to meet any one who could give him tidings of Barbara. Until six months before, he had been content with his own company, but the daily close intimacy had set up an itch for confidences. He wanted to know how she was and what she was doing, whether she was missing him. In three weeks there had been no sign of capitulation. And he depended for news of her on chance paragraphs in the illustrated papers. Eric entered the train at Paddington with the current number of the Catch, containing a full-page photograph of her in eastern dress. There was also an Albert Hall group in which she figured with half a dozen of the very people who were not good enough for her. It was disappointing, and others were disappointed too.

"I've no news for you, but I've been thinking over this business a good deal," Loring had written two days earlier. "I can promise you a very friendly reception from the family, if and when you do adjust your differences with Barbara. My aunt, Kathleen Knightrider, is in despair; she says you were the only person who ever had any influence over Babs. Now that you've disappeared, she's picking up with all the old lot. Crawleigh's afraid to protest, because he doesn't want to precipitate a row. She comes of age in a few weeks, and then no one can stop her...."

Jack was wondering with vague dissatisfaction how much more time to give her for making a move, when his hand was forced. On returning to London after the week-end, he lighted on a photograph with the description, "Lady Barbara Neave, Who is Giving a Sensational Ball. See p. 7." He turned to the page indicated and read a gossipy half-column over the signature of "A Woman About Town."

"A mad world, my masters! But an amusing one, don't you think? The oldsters say 'What next, what next?' but the youngsters always have 'next' up their sleeves, and it's always better than the last. Youth for ever! We had the Shakespeare Ball, and the Regency Ball threw it into the shade. Then the Young Bachelors took the field—and were driven from it (with full honours of war, and all thanks to you, dear young bachelors, for a glorious evening) by The Rest. Mrs. Leo Butler gave her Night in a Persian Garden, and Lady Hessler retaliated with her Daybreak Dance, which started at four—it's still going on, for all I know. A mad world! And the oldsters are being attacked by the madness. These 'boy-and-girl' dances were squeezing them into the cold, so they gave a ball to themselves where only the married could hope for admission. 'The Hags' Hop,' said irreverent Youth and bided its time for revenge. And now it is coming—in Ascot Week. I rub my eyes, for the World and His Wife will be at the Bodmin Lodge ball, as they have always been and as their fathers and mothers were before them. Ascot Week? Bodmin Lodge? One would as soon compete with the Royal Enclosure as with the Bodmin Lodge ball. Yet—it is not the whisper of my faithful little bird, but an engraved card—'Lady Barbara Neave, At Home.' Fancy Dress, she says in one corner. At the Empire Hotel. And my little bird tells me that it will rival and outshine the Jubilee Ball at Devonshire House, when we were all tiny tots. If I know anything of Lady Barbara, it will be the ball of the season. Youth for ever! But it is a mad world. 'What are our girls coming to?' the oldsters ask. 'A girl giving a ball!' 'And a wonderful ball it will be,' say I. Best wishes, Lady Barbara!"

Jack assumed that Barbara must be organizing a ball for some charity and thought no more of the announcement until he met Loring at the County Club that night before dinner and was hurried into the cool and deserted billiard-room.

"I say, have you seen about my precious cousin's latest freak?" Loring began. "There's been the most colossal row!"

"I saw an announcement about a ball in one of the papers," Jack answered.

"One of them! She's got it in every rag in the kingdom, morning and evening, penny plain and twopence coloured. Barbara's thorough; I'll say that for her. There's no going back."

He paused to fan himself and ring for a glass of sherry.

"What exactly was the row?" asked Jack.

"Well, you know, she's coming of age next week; and the Crawleighs thought it was a good opportunity for working off old scores. Nominally it was to be Barbara's party, but, when they started on their list, she found that some of her more objectionable friends were being cut out. I've no doubt Crawleigh did it as tactlessly as possible, and Barbara took it as a challenge. Both sides fought the question on principle, Crawleigh lost his temper on principle, Babs—on principle—kept hers and said that, if her friends couldn't come to the house, she'd give a party for them elsewhere."

"Characteristic," Jack murmured.

"Very. It sounded like an empty threat, but that little devil—she is a little devil, Jack. If I were in your place, I'd no more think of marrying her than of marrying a wild animal—well, she was going to make this an Austerlitz or a Waterloo—no drawn battles for Babs; she deliberately chose the night of the Bodmin Lodge ball and invited everybody she'd ever heard of. I got my card within twenty hours of the original row."

"Are you going?"

Loring laughed grimly and postponed answering the question.

"She's thorough!" he repeated. "I was still at breakfast, when she came in; I gather she's doing a house-to-house canvass. 'Jim darling, you're coming to my party, aren't you?' she said. 'I want it to be a success.' 'I am not,' I said. 'I heard about the row and I think you're behaving abominably.' 'It'll look bad, if my own—loving—cousin stops away from my coming-of-age ball,' she said, her eyes simply gleaming with devilry. 'Jim, if you all go against me, you'll spoil my party, and father'll think he's won. Then I shall go away and live by myself; and that would make a scandal, which you'd hate.' I told her that she was a little devil—in case she didn't know it before. Then she came behind my chair and put her arms round my neck; and I called her a number of other things. Mark you, I dislike her; I think she's intrinsically unsound, but I'm not in the least surprised that you fell in love with her; she knows her job so well. She said with a tear in her voice—and in her eyes; if you ever see her blinking quickly, it's just to make herself cry.... All right, but you may as well know these things before you marry her—she said, 'Jim darling, I love you, but you do make it hard for us to be friends.' I told her again that I wasn't coming to her ball. She sighed and began putting on her gloves. At the door she turned round and said, 'Jim, you know the little paragraph "Among those present ..."? Sometimes it's "Among those who accepted invitations...." I'm going to have a special paragraph—"Among those who refused invitations was the Marquess Loring."' Then she became a hundred per cent. devil; she was thoroughly enjoying herself. 'I won't let it stop at that! I'm going to have this thing properly advertised. In the morning you'll see wonderful descriptions and pictures of the ball—and that paragraph. And the evening papers will comment on it—all the disreputable ones; I'm the greatest friends with all the really disreputable papers. And next day you'll see pictures of yourself in the disreputable daily papers—"Lord Loring, Who is Reported to have said 'Damned if I do!' when his cousin Lady Barbara Neave invited him to her ball." I don't want to do it; it'll be a great deal of trouble; but this quarrel has been forced on me, and, if you drive me to it, I shall go through to the end.'" Loring sighed and fanned himself again. "You can't argue with a woman, when she's like that. I said I'd come. My mother and Amy came in, and she talked them over inside two minutes—left them with the idea that the Crawleighs habitually tied her to the bed-post and took a cat-o'-nine-tails to her (I wish they would); then she went off to continue the house-to-house canvass. It's heart-breaking!"

Jack listened with relief to the end of the tale. He had feared something worse, but he would almost rather hear of Barbara's misbehaving herself than not hear of her at all.

"There's no great harm done," he suggested.

"It's a toss-up. She can't blackmail everybody as she blackmailed me. God knows! you can do most things in the year of grace 1914, but an unmarried girl, with parents living, doesn't give balls on her own. Any number of people have rather raised their eyebrows in talking to me about it. If it's a success, there's about a six-to-four odds-on chance that people will think it rather a joke, Barbara's latest freak. But, if the thing's a failure, if any one starts a movement against it, then Barbara will declare war on society. Don't make any mistake; this isn't a fit of temper, it's a phase in her natural development. I've seen it coming for a long time; she wants to be in the position where a thing becomes right because she does it; she's always disregarded the law and now she wants to make the law. If the girl only had sisters! They might keep her in order.... You know, there's a certain magnificence about her; she's surrounded herself with every natural difficulty she could find—Bodmin Lodge; she's raiding the Pebbleridge preserve in broad day-light, she's asked Lady Pebbleridge to come on after her own party. Fancy dress—she's set herself to rival the Devonshire House ball.... Jack, is that the girl you want to marry? D'you imagine you'll ever be able to control her? If you'd seen her standing by the door—it was Joan of Arc giving the signal for battle."

"She can't blackmail me."

"What else is she doing now? She's blackmailing every one."

"Well, obviously I can't stop it until communications are re-established."

"Then for the love of Heaven——No, I won't say that."

"Go on."

Loring looked at him closely and shrugged his shoulders.

"I wonder whether you're responsible for this new outbreak of hers? This is the way she used to behave a year ago and for some time before that. Then she dropped it. Now she's started again.... My difficulty is that I don't know if she cares for you, if she's capable of caring for any one. This may be her vindication—to shew that she can do anything. Or she may be fond of you, she may feel she's lost you. She's got the pride of a spoilt child. I think now, though I didn't think it when you dined with me, that she'll never climb down voluntarily. Possibly she's trying to forget you."

Jack roused with a jerk and then dropped his head between his hands. He had never imagined that she was as lonely as he had been.

"What d'you suggest, Jim?"

"I don't know. If she's gone Berserk on your account, I warn you that she's in the mood to marry the first man in the street who's kind to her. I felt like that after the break-up with Sonia. This ball is only a symptom."

Loring ceased staring out of the window and glanced down at his companion. Jack was still sitting with his fists pressed against his temples, motionless and silent. A member flung open the door, peered round the room and withdrew. As the clock chimed eight, Loring looked at his watch, scribbled a telephone message and rang for a page.

"You've shifted your ground since last we discussed this subject," Jack observed at length.

"I don't know...."

"Oh, yes. You want me to stop the Berserk phase. You think I'm at the bottom of it? Well, I've got my share of pride or vanity or whatever you like to call it. I've asked her once, and she turned me down because I wasn't a Catholic. I'm not going to call daily, like a milkman. Do you want me to go to her and say I'm a Catholic?"

Loring shook his head resolutely.

"I'm not going to take the responsibility of that."

"Responsibility be damned! You've taken the responsibility of saying that I've brought about all this trouble and that, apparently, I'm the only person who can stop it. You're not naturally sanctimonious, Jim, but you've got a wonderful passion for not committing yourself. Will you take the responsibility of not repeating our conversation to anybody?"

Loring looked up with startled eyes, but the door slammed before he could answer.

For perhaps three days the success of "The Children's Party," as Barbara's costume ball came to be designated, hung in the balance. Some of those who might not have objected to the ball itself disliked Barbara's association with it and the salvo of press welcome which advertised a private party as though it were a public charity. But, while her critics murmured, Barbara was telephoning, writing and driving round London to divide and win over the enemy, always using the promises of her first victims to persuade the others. If Lady Loring consented to come, who less exalted had the right to raise her voice? Because it had never been done before, was that a reason why it should not be done now? Novelty and organization effected much, curiosity more; for Deganway, with his genius for discovering other people's secrets, published abroad that there had been civil war in Berkeley Square and that the ball was Barbara's declaration of independence.

"The Crawleighs simply don't know what to do!" he exclaimed gleefully on the fourth day of the campaign. "Positively everybody's coming—except the Pebbleridges, of course; I saw Harriet Pebbleridge yesterday, and she's perfectly furious."

"One was told that the parents were formally invited," said Val Arden, "but it was made clear that they must comport themselves as guests. Lady Lilith would receive alone. You are thinking of looking in, George? Yes? One had some difficulty in deciding on a suitable costume. A Modern Financier—after our good Sir Adolf Erckmann? Were one's health more robust, one would be tempted to give a party 'As Others See Us' and to insist that one's guests should each personate a friend. Chastening, chastening! One would expose oneself to indifferent parodies by Lady Maitland, whom one has had the ill fortune to offend...."

For ten days the theatrical costumiers were kept busy. Historic dresses were disinterred, chain armour was taken down from the walls; and there was bitter rivalry between those who simultaneously selected the same character. When every one had made his choice, Barbara intimated that she would like photographs of all; and for another week the studios were thronged. It was agreed at the outset that no one would go to Bodmin Lodge and the Empire Hotel on the same night; and, as the discussion of costumes ruled out every other interest, Barbara found herself besieged with requests for invitations; to be omitted was to be disgraced; and she had the gratification of sending belated cards to more than one critic who in the first excited hours had protested that brute force alone would send her to the Empire Hotel under such auspices.

"It's her Austerlitz and my uncle's Waterloo," said Loring to Jack, when they met two days before the ball. He was careful not to ask what his friend had been doing since last they met. "It's her great vindication; Crawleigh's asked to be allowed to come—to avoid a scandal. She's stampeded London; everybody's accepted, and I believe they'll all come for fear people will think they've not been invited. It's as bad as that."

"There's one person who didn't accept," said Jack, with a crooked smile.

"She invited you? Well, it would have been rather pointed to leave you out. And she wouldn't be human, if she didn't want you to see her in her triumph."

"I shall depend on you to tell me all about it," said Jack.

"Oh, I shall just shake hands with her and then go straight home to bed."

As the day approached, the excitement redoubled until Barbara herself began to fear an anticlimax. Only the need of registering her triumph prevailed over physical exhaustion and sustained her in the stifling hostility of Berkeley Square. Her father and mother drove with her to the hotel and were formally announced. They would have liked to loiter near her and to suggest that they were the hosts and were indulging their daughter's whim, but Barbara urged them into the ball-room and returned alone to her place at the head of the stairs. There for an hour she received and tried to keep count of her guests. Congratulations poured in upon her; she was complimented on her enterprise, her looks, her dress.

"No one but you would have thought of doing such a thing," cried Lady Maitland admiringly.

"Oh, I expect a great many people thought of it, but I was the only one who did it," she answered, and the phrase comforted her.

Bobbie Pentyre, who had been sent to spy out the nakedness of Bodmin Lodge, arrived late with the report that it was almost deserted and that Lady Pebbleridge, black with rage, had announced that she would never give another ball, if people deserted her at the last moment like this.

"She said that your leavings weren't good enough for her," he added. "I thought that was rather rude to the people who had toiled all the way out to Knightsbridge, so I handed it on to any one who I thought would be interested, and that emptied the house quicker than ever."

"I'm sorry if her party's a failure," said Barbara, "but—if people prefer coming to me...?"

She walked with him to the door of the ball-room. The crowd was too great for dancing, and her guests were parading four abreast, until she should give the signal and march at their head to supper. Inside the doorway her father was standing in the robes of John, first baron, Lord High Chancellor of England. She went up to him and slipped her arm through his.

"Am I forgiven, father?" she asked with a smile. "You know how I hate people to be angry with me."

"It's all very well to ask for forgiveness when you've got your own way," said Lord Crawleigh with a vengeful tug at his blonde moustache.

"But, if I want my own way, haven't I inherited that from you?" she asked gently. "It's no good trying to bully me, because I won't be bullied. You admit now that there was nothing very sinful in this ball?"

"I didn't say it was sinful," Lord Crawleigh returned sharply. "I said that such a thing had never been done before. There was no precedent."

"But every one will do it now!" she cried proudly. "That you won't see, father; I establish precedents."

"I don't see it and I won't see it."

Barbara sighed and looked down on him with half-closed eyes and drooping mouth.

"Don't you like to see me happy, father? Won't you kiss me and say I'm forgiven?"

Lord Crawleigh stiffened and drew away, as Loring came up from behind, pushing open his visor.

"Well, I've kept my promise, Barbara," he began coldly. "The prodigal daughter scene didn't go with much of a swing, I thought."

"The prodigal son never promised not to be prodigal again. He was tired and hungry, poor boy, and nobody cared for him. I'm tired, too; I've been standing ever since a quarter past ten. And I'm hungry. Would you like to take me down to supper?"

Her pleading voice seemed to bring to the surface everything that was hard in Loring's kindly nature.

"Not in the least, thank you, Barbara," he said, "after the way you blackmailed me into coming here. I've kept my promise and I should be half-way home by now if I hadn't run into Violet Hunter-Oakleigh. I'm having supper with her."

"Ah, I invited her specially to please you. Every one says you're in love with each other. She's a dear girl, but I think she's got fatty degeneration of the conscience." She looked thoughtfully at her cousin, and her face lit up with a mischievous smile. "Jim, darling! I only said that to see if it would make you angry. So you are in love with her? Well, I'm really very fond of Violet, even if she does cross herself when I come into the room.... If you knew how absurd it was to look angry in that costume! I'm not having a great success with my relations to-night. Sometimes I wish father were just a little bit fonder of me."

Loring turned away in disgust.

"You tried repentance with him, and it didn't come off. For heaven's sake don't try the pathetic with me. I'm not a responsive audience."

"Nor a very intelligent audience either, perhaps. You never know when I'm sincere. I do feel it most frightfully that I never seem to get on properly with mother and father; I love them—and yet I can't live their life. The last three weeks have been horrible—one scene after another until I was worn out; I was sent to Coventry. And to-night I felt dreadfully tired and, though the ball's been a success and everybody's been sweet, I felt horribly lonely; people were calling me 'dear' and 'darling' and saying how beautiful I looked, and all the time nobody really loved me—heart and soul. I was quite sincere; I wanted to be friends with father. Jim, won't you take me down to supper? I want to be friends with you."

She looked up to him with beseeching, tired eyes and disarming pathos. Loring surveyed her gravely for a moment and then broke into a laugh.

"So it was all leading up to that? My dear Barbara, if any one loved you—heart and soul—which you wouldn't deserve, you simply wouldn't recognize it.... I've already told you that I'm having supper with Violet."

"And you won't—ask her to excuse you?"

"No."

"She'd let you go, if you reminded her that this is my birthday party."

"I shan't remind her."

Barbara threw up her chin and clasped her hands behind her.

"You think I can't make you take me in to supper?"

"I'm quite sure of it."

"I see. Well, ride your ways, Laird of Chepstow. They are waiting for me to head the procession. You had better take my place—with Violet. Tell them that I am not going down. And, if they ask why, say that I begged my cousin Lord Loring—as a present to me on my twenty-first birthday—to take me down to supper. Say that I was tired and hungry. You needn't say that you refused; they'll guess that."

She walked a few steps into the room; and Loring, after a moment's hesitation, followed her.

"Do behave yourself, Barbara," he whispered irritably.

"Am I misbehaving? No one else seems to have noticed it ... George! I haven't the least idea what you're supposed to be, but you look adorable."

"I'm a Spanish nobleman, temp. Philip the Second," Oakleigh answered. "You know, Armada and all that sort of thing. Barbara, I've been commissioned to tell you that the poor old Duchess of Ross is faint with hunger."

"Ah, poor soul, so am I! Are you taking her down? How sweet of you! She's so greedy and so malicious. I believe I told the band to play us in with "Pomp and Circumstance." Form them up, George, and tell Murano to begin."

"But you'll have to lead off."

"I'm not going to have any supper."

"Why not? You deserve it, if anybody does."

"I've not found any one who'll associate with me at supper."

"D'you mean that every one's paired off and left you? That's monstrous. Look here, I don't like to leave my present partner stranded, but, if you can hold out for twenty minutes, may I come back and take you down?"

Barbara looked at Loring out of the corner of her eye and thanked George with a tired smile.

"I shall be too faint to eat anything by then," she answered. "But it was sweet of you to offer, and you're a living lesson in manners for my cousin."

Oakleigh looked from one to the other.

"Hullo! Have you two been quarrelling?"

"No, it's my fault. I've offended him," Barbara explained. "You see, it's my birthday, and, ever since I was a baby, everybody's done everything I wanted on my birthday. I wanted to have supper with Jim, so I refused Bobbie Pentyre and Charlie Framlingham and Johnnie Carstairs. Then I asked Jim, and I'm afraid he thought that a girl oughtn't to ask a man to take her to supper—even her own cousin, at her own ball, on her own birthday."

There was a conciliatory laugh from Oakleigh, but Loring frowned with ill humour.

"That's not true, Barbara," he said.

"I'm sorry, Jim; it was the only reason I could think of. When I first asked you, I didn't know you were engaged."

The two men looked at each other; and Barbara smiled a welcome to Summertown, who came forward cautiously, with the tail of his eye on a trailing sword.

"I say, Babs, Murano wants to know whether he's to play the jolly old march-past."

"Oh, yes! Tell him to begin. You've got some one to take down to supper? Good boy! Will you lead off? I'm not going down."

Summertown's sword flashed to the salute and rattled clumsily back into its scabbard. He returned to the orchestra, and Loring, after a survey of the room to find his partner, followed quickly after him. Oakleigh laid his hand persuasively on Barbara's wrist and lowered his voice.

"Your ball's been such an astounding success that I hope you're not going to spoil it for the sake of a quarrel with Jim."

Barbara pressed his hand gently.

"Dear George! I'm so fond of you! You always speak with the sweet reasonableness of a man with numberless troublesome little brothers and sisters. Don't worry about me! It may be a wrong-headed sort of pride, but, when I've asked a man for a thing, I'd sooner starve than take it from anybody else."

Over the drone of voices came the tap of the leader's baton. George shuffled from one foot to the other, shrugged his shoulders and hurried away with a lop-sided smile. The middle of the room quickly cleared until Barbara was left by herself, with the procession pressed in twos by the walls. As the first chord was struck, Summertown called out:

"Once round and then down, Babs?"

"Oh, twice, I think," she called back. "I want to see you all."

As the couples moved forward, she retreated to an armchair on a dais by the door, smiling down on them and returning their bows. There was a stiff nod from her father, walking with Lady Maitland, and a sweet, perplexed smile from her mother, who was with Lord Poynter. Oakleigh, with the Duchess of Ross on his arm, again shrugged his shoulders, but she had little attention to spare for him; immediately behind, Violet Hunter-Oakleigh was walking with Val Arden.

Barbara looked quickly round the room, and, as the procession completed its first circuit, Loring came up and stood beside her.

"I told Violet it was your birthday," he said abruptly.

"And she let you go? I told you she would!"

"Oh, no one's likely to fight over my body! And Violet's too well-bred to make even a veiled scene. Besides, I think she understood—to the uttermost farthing."

"Then there's not the least need for you to be grumpy. Sit down on the arm of my chair, but don't topple me over. Have you ever seen anything quite so grotesque as poor Johnnie Carstairs? In case you don't know, he's supposed to represent Danton."

"I daresay. I don't want to talk about Johnnie Carstairs. Barbara, I've had enough of these antics."

He stood stiffly at a distance, towering over her and refusing to see the hand that invited him to her chair.

"Jim, are you angry with me?" she asked in surprise. "Remember, you challenged me; you ought to take a beating in good part."

"Oh, I don't greatly care how you behave to me, but I resent being made an instrument of rudeness to others. You've got to apologize to Violet."

"For giving her Val Arden instead of you for a partner? My dear, you're about equally tiresome in different ways, but Val is far more amusing. I rather expect Violet to come up and thank me. Do you like to challenge me over that?"

"I've no doubt that, if I challenged you to play leap-frog with Murano, you'd do it. I don't challenge you to do anything."

Barbara laughed softly.

"Is my impetuous cousin learning prudence? Jim, you're a dreadful old blusterer! From the distant security of Surinam you can be valiant—and hideously cruel—Oh, yes, I've got a memory—like other people—and a skin to be flayed—like other people—and feelings to be hurt—like other people. And it hurts to be hit from behind when you're down—and hit by your own family. You're not so valiant at close quarters—either three weeks ago or to-night."

The tail of the procession was drawing near, and she rose and stood ready to fall in.

"I didn't send that cable to hurt you particularly," said Loring. "I was so disgusted that I didn't want to have you inside the house."

"Yet I'm always coming to lunch and dinner—even to breakfast occasionally."

"Yes, your mother interceded for you. It won't work a second time. Please understand that you are not a persona grata at my house."

Barbara laughed mischievously and then became menacingly emphatic.

"If that's another challenge, my impetuous cousin doesn't seem to have learned prudence! Jim, as a rule I don't interfere with you, and, if you won't interfere with me, there's no need for us to quarrel. You were good enough to call me a devil the other day; well, if you want your quarrel, you shall have it. But you'll be beaten. I've beaten you to-night, I've beaten father. I've won. And I've won because I go straight ahead and, when I threaten a thing, I do it. Men seem only to bluster. You. And father. You all think you can bully me. A man once said to me that, when I became engaged, he'd send all good wishes or something—and a dog-whip to my husband as a wedding-present."

"Jack Waring said that."

"Did he tell you? When?"

"I've forgotten. We've discussed you more than once, and I've given him a very candid opinion of you."

Barbara tossed her head, but her eyes were enquiring.

"What did you say?"

"Oh, it varies from time to time, as you shew yourself in different lights. Until this evening I didn't fully appreciate how vindictive you could be."

"And you're going to add that—with two more strokes of your delicate brush? I'm afraid Jack thinks too highly of me to be convinced by your picture."

"Well, I'd hardly say that."

"He doesn't talk about dog-whips any more. He doesn't abuse me and bully me. It's no good, Jim. The moment any one tries to coerce me—it's like slapping your hand down on an open wound; you set every nerve quivering in rebellion. If you were gentle and kind ... George Oakleigh was charming to me after you'd gone; I'd have done anything for him. I'd do anything for you, if you behaved like that. I don't want to quarrel with you or with any one; you'd find me great fun, if you'd only be friends. Fancy going on like this—and on my birthday, too!"

"After to-night I have no wish to be friends."

For an instant her eyes narrowed and her lips hardened in a thin straight line. Then she broke into a laugh.

"Well, for to-night at least let's keep up appearances!"