Lorraine did not come out of the Hospital in a week. It was two weeks before he quit it, and three weeks until he was able to leave his house and go down town and to the Clubs. He found a hearty welcome awaiting him from everyone; even those whom he knew but slightly shook his hand and congratulated him on his recovery.

Some of the men had dropped in at intervals—Cameron the most frequently, but Pendleton not at all—though they all were too busy to do more than inquire, and then forget him in the rush of affairs and Society. He heard occasionally of Stephanie—read in the Society news of her being at the Burlestons' and the Tazewells' and the Chamberlains', and others of her old friends who were loyal. Pendleton's name always was included; and once or twice he had noticed Porshinger's—with a frown. What was he doing there—how did he come to be included? He had intended to ask Cameron—but every time he had forgotten it until Cameron had gone.

The truth of the matter lay in the Chamberlain invitation. Porshinger had seen to it that that fact was promptly noted in all the papers, and Society—at first a bit gasping and incredulous—had been more or less quick to follow suit. If the Chamberlains were taking him up, who else could refuse? So Miss Tazewell's fear was verified—as was Miss Chamberlain's prediction—that it was only a question of being first. True, neither Mrs. Porterfield nor Mrs. Postlewaite had given him the light of her countenance, but that would come in time—a reasonably short time. Just as soon as they were assured of his desirability, he would be formally visÉd by them—and his social career would be easy henceforth.

It was the afternoon of the day after the Croyden dance that Lorraine first got up to the Otranto Club, and had his curiosity gratified—at least as to the reasons for Porshinger's inclusion.

He found Warwick Devereux absorbing a long, cold drink on the side piazza, and was hailed to participate.

"Mighty glad to see you around," said Devereux. "Must be a month since your accident."

"I'm mighty glad to get around," Lorraine replied. "What have you been doing while I was in a hospital?"

"Do you mean me individually, or is the question intended to include the social world in general?"

"Both—the latter first, if you don't mind; it will comprehend much of the former."

"Hum!" muttered Devereux. "I suppose that is meant to be courteous, Harry, but I don't know. Well, the main thing that we have been doing, we've been doing to ourselves—making damn fools of ourselves, to be accurate."

"That is interesting!" laughed Lorraine. "How did we manage to do it?"

"It doesn't require management to do it," the other remarked, draining his glass. "The management is required when we don't do it—only, on this particular occasion, we have been more than ordinarily successful at the damn-fool business."

"What have we done now?" Lorraine asked. "Break it gently, Devereux, break it gently!"

"We've been taking up that bounder Porshinger. By we I mean Society. We have been helping—no we've actually been dragging him up the wall with the gold chains and the gold ladder he has provided. Did you ever know such—asininity?"

"It's pretty bad," Lorraine agreed; "though I reckon it was about due. Porshinger was bound to get in so long as he didn't marry wrong, though I didn't think we would lift him over the wall. How do you explain it?"

"Naturally enough!" Devereux snorted. "Everyone was waiting for someone to start—but everyone was afraid to start. Then Gladys Chamberlain started—and the rest of the women followed like a lot of geese."

"Like a lot of geese is good," said Lorraine. "Society is like nothing so much as geese, in such matters. Yet what surprises me is that Gladys Chamberlain should take him up. She doesn't need his money, and it isn't possible that she likes him. I don't think she even knew him, certainly not more than to bow to, when I went on the injured list. Why is it, do you suppose?"

"It occurred suddenly down at Criss-Cross. Some of us were there for the week-end; Porshinger was at the Woodsides'. Gladys announced at dinner that she was going to have him over, and asked our opinion. We gave it to her, Burgoyne and Cameron and Pendleton and I, but it didn't faze in the least. He came. We were courteous to him, of course. He was unassuming, but talked shop to the women beside him all through dinner—and there you are! The Rubicon was crossed."

"But why did Gladys do it?"

"Search me!" Devereux exclaimed.

"She is the last one to act on impulse in such a matter."

"Search me!" Devereux reiterated, with a lift of his hands. "Only, you don't want to try to explain things by the reasonable route—you won't succeed, Harry. Woman isn't a reasonable creature. She's an exotic, an eccentric, who doesn't always eccent."

"Is that a discovery?" asked Lorraine.

"Not at all," retorted Devereux. "It's a self-evident fact, that is why I told you. Understand?"

"Have another high-ball?" laughed Lorraine.

"Yes, thank you!... Harry," said he, as he poured the Scotch and slowly shot in the carbonated water, "it may be impertinent, it is damned impertinent, but you'll not misunderstand me—sometimes a friend's impertinence is a proof of his friendship.—What I want to say, old man, is this:" He pushed back his glass and looked at the other thoughtfully a moment. "Why don't you make it up with Stephanie?"

"For the simplest of reasons, Devereux," Lorraine responded. "She won't make it up."

"She won't make it up!" Warwick marvelled. "Have you tried her?"

Lorraine nodded.

"Before my accident—and later at the Hospital," he said. "It was respectfully declined."

"She surely doesn't mean it! She would be a—it would be most extraordinary."

"Stephanie's an extraordinary woman. Moreover, I can't blame her. She can't forget, I think, the day of her return and my denial of her before them all on this very piazza."

"You were a fool!" exclaimed Devereux pithily.

"You're putting it mildly!" Lorraine admitted—"but—oh, well—she came so suddenly, so absolutely unexpectedly that I acted before I thought."

"I can understand, but—Stephanie can't."

"Stephanie can't—and she won't. She won't accept any excuse. She says that if I'd been a proper sort of husband Amherst wouldn't have had a chance."

"Which is peculiar reasoning," Devereux commented:—"If you don't guard me, you're to blame if I go wrong."

"Woman is an exotic—an eccentric!" quoted Lorraine.

"She is. Do you need any further demonstration to prove it? And are you not going to try to persuade her?" Devereux demanded.

"I am, indeed."

"That's right, Lorraine—don't give up! You started wrong, very wrong—end right. Stephanie's worth it—despite the past."

"The past be damned!" Lorraine exclaimed. "I've forgot it—buried it. So far as she is concerned, it never existed. But——" he brought his fist down on the table till the glasses jumped and rattled—"it's another thing with Amherst!—it's another thing with Amherst! Sometime, Devereux, sometime——" he ended with a gesture.

"I know how you feel, old man," said Warwick soothingly, "and I reckon I'd feel like you do; but Amherst is gone, and I don't imagine will be back for years—if ever. You just forget him. If you had done something at the time the law would have been lenient—but not now. Moreover, it will only renew the scandal and react upon Stephanie. Oh! I know it's hard to let him go—but it's the wise course now.—If only you had broken his head at the time, or filled him full of lead! Now your opportunity is gone, and you must put the idea away from you."

Lorraine beat on the table and said nothing; and Devereux, after watching him a moment, said nothing more. Lorraine was a weak character, whom opposition sometimes makes the more determined. And while Warwick did not care particularly for him, he wanted to save Stephanie the embarrassment that a revival of the affair would be sure to cause. So far as the two men were concerned, they might fight it out and welcome—and if they killed each other, it would not be much loss to the world.

From which it may be seen that Pendleton's view-point was the view-point of Devereux—as well as of most of the men.

Presently Lorraine spoke.

"I wonder where Amherst is?" he said.

"Abroad," Devereux answered.

"I mean, where abroad?"

"In Siberia or the Congo or Australia or anywhere that's far off. I should bury myself."

"More than likely he is in London or Paris," Lorraine insisted.

"More than likely he is," Devereux admitted. "I hear that he has converted all his real estate, and has slipped his moorings for good and all."

"You mean that he is never coming back?"

"Such is the report from an authentic source, I'm told."

Lorraine smiled a bit grimly.

"Never is a long time," he said. "I'll not believe it—and I shall hope not until I die.—Someway—somehow—I'm going to square off with Amherst. It may be years, yet I shall do it—and do it well."

"What if Stephanie and you make it up—you won't think then of harming Amherst?" said Devereux.

"No—I suppose not—at least, not openly; but if we don't make it up——" another gesture ended the sentence.

Devereux frowned and was about to answer; then he pulled himself up, and with the slightest lift of his eyebrows busied himself with his drink. There was no use in arguing with Lorraine—he would not know his own mind more than an hour anyway.

"There is another contingency, Lorraine," said he:—"Suppose you don't succeed in effecting a reconciliation with Stephanie—what then?"

"I'll never give up trying," Lorraine replied.

"But if your efforts after a time prove fruitless, will persistence be of any avail? Won't it simply make her more irreconcilable and unyielding?"

"You mean will I divorce her—or permit her to obtain a divorce?"

Devereux nodded.

"Most assuredly not!" Lorraine declared. "If I'm not to have her, who belongs to me, none else shall."

"Sort of a dag in the manger business?" Devereux smiled.

"Not at all.—I'm simply keeping what is mine."

"Not exactly—you will be keeping what was yours but is yours no longer."

"You think that I should let her go?"

"If a reconciliation is impossible, I think that you should let her go. What is more, you should make it possible for her to get the divorce."

"You mean I should admit——"

"Not at all—though that is a minor matter, and wouldn't hurt you in the least if you were to admit it; under the circumstances, you are entitled to break over. However, that is neither here nor there; she can procure a divorce for non-support—if you don't contest it."

"Yes—if I don't contest it!" Lorraine sneered. "One might fancy that you contemplated marrying her yourself, Devereux."

"I don't contemplate marrying her, and you know it," said Devereux imperturbably; "though for my part, I should consider myself very fortunate indeed to win her. But someone else probably will want to marry her, and she may want to marry him—and you will be only the dog in the manger, Lorraine, only the dog in the manger—with the sympathy of not one soul in all the world."

"I don't care for sympathy!" Lorraine exclaimed—"and I shouldn't get it if I did—from you men. You always favor a pretty woman. You all have been against me from the first. You think it was all my fault Amherst had a chance to ingratiate himself."

"Wasn't it?" Devereux asked.

Lorraine stopped and stared.

"They went off together, didn't they—was that my doing?" he demanded.

"Not directly—but indi——"

"Am I responsible for what a low-down dog like Amherst does? Hadn't I a right to presume he wouldn't do it? Hadn't I a right to trust my own wife? Is a husband to be suspicious and suspecting? Isn't he justified in presuming innocence rather than guilt?"

"As a general proposition, yes; varied, however, by the dramatis personae—and the circumstances."

"What should I have done?" Lorraine demanded.

"Anything but what you did do," returned Devereux kindly. "But that isn't the question that confronts you now, and is up to you for decision, and which you alone can decide. Don't make another blunder; you can't afford it—and neither can Stephanie." He leaned forward and put his hand on the other's knee. "Consider well, Lorraine. Stephanie and you are young—the world is before you. Make it as easy going for both of you as you can. You are a long time dead, remember."

"At least when we're dead we're done!" Lorraine broke out.

"Maybe you are—but I haven't heard of anyone who knows; and you'd best not chance it when it is so easy to do the right thing now."

"And the right thing is?" asked Lorraine sarcastically.

"What is best for you both—if you can't be reconciled, then be divorced."

Lorraine smiled a sickly smile, and made no answer.

"Gratuitous advice is rarely acceptable, I know," Devereux went on, "but it is honest and well meant, and comes from a life-long friend of you both. Now, Lorraine, we will say no more on the subject."—He struck the bell. "Take Mr. Lorraine's order," he said to the waiter.

But Lorraine shook his head.

"I think I've had enough," he replied—"both of liquor and the Club, for this time. I'm going home and think it over. I'm a bit tired and out of sorts. So long!" and went slowly out, got into his car and drove off.

Devereux watched him meditatively until he was gone; then he too shook his head—and sat drumming on the chair-arm with his finger tips.

"What is it?" asked Pendleton, who had approached from the rear. "What do you see, Dev—a pretty girl?"

"Do I look it?" said Devereux, glancing around.

"Now that you favor me with your full countenance, I can't say that you do," the other smiled, swinging a chair around for his feet and sitting down. "You are evidently bunkered or have topped your drive. I beg your pardon for intruding—don't let me interrupt, I pray."

"I wasn't playing mental golf—I was thinking."

"I see," said Pendleton. "A good occupation—continue to think, if it isn't too exhausting."

"I was thinking and wondering," Devereux continued—"why Stephanie Mourraille married Lorraine. What in the devil's name did she see in him anyway!—What could she see in him!"

"Qualities which you and I and the other men are blind to," said Montague dryly. "Woman has the power of endowing the man with whom she imagines she is in love, with every attribute that he should normally possess—and rarely does. We're all deficient, Devereux, at the Bar of Popular Opinion—it is only a matter of degree."

"Well, I should say that Lorraine is the maximum degree—and then some," was the reply.—"And that Stephanie knows it at last—when it is too late. Why didn't you marry her, Pendleton? Everyone thought you were willing—and she ought to have been."

Pendleton sent a smoke whirling upward, and followed it with another, and another—but said no word.

"It's a bit personal, I know—and you shouldn't answer," Devereux admitted—"but all the same, why didn't you?"

"Maybe Stephanie wouldn't have me," said Pendleton slowly.

"The more fool she!" the other exclaimed. "Yet it's like a woman—they never know what is best for them when they have a choice to make—at least, they choose wrong thirty-five times out of fifty."

"And forty-five out of fifty they think they are the winning fifteen—and fifty times out of fifty, it is no one's business but their own," Pendleton replied.

"You're right in theory," Devereux admitted, "but you're wrong in practice. We have some business with our friends' affairs—enough to regret when we see one of them, especially a woman, going on the rocks from very heedlessness of the buoys that mark the channel."

"Why not chain in the channel so they can't get out of it?" asked Pendleton.

"They would break the chains from very perversity and go on the rocks just the same," Devereux averred. "The only way is to provide a pilot who won't run amuck."

"You're mixing your metaphors, old man!"

"Maybe I am, but you know what I mean."

"Stephanie chose a pilot," Pendleton reminded him.

"Not at all—she chose a blockhead—a fool. Now she is paying the price for her error—and I'm mighty sorry for her. The simpleton now is crazy to effect a reconciliation, says he will never give her up, and vows vengeance on Amherst. I advised him, if he can't effect the reconciliation—which of course he can't—to let Stephanie divorce him. But nay! nay! If he can't have her no one shall have her, he declares—she is his wife and she is going to stay his wife—et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. It makes me sick! I asked him why, for Stephanie's sake, he didn't forget Amherst and not stir up the nasty scandal afresh? He answered that he would do nothing if she returned to him, but if she did not, he would——" He imitated Lorraine's gesture. "I don't know what that gesture means, but I assume it threatens something dire."

"And the pity of it is that he is just a big enough fool to do it," said Pendleton. "If he had acted at once, and shot Amherst down for the vicious beast he is, everyone would have been glad and the deed would have been amply justified. Now it is worse than foolish—it's asinine."

"Just so," Devereux responded. "You can't blame him, of course, for feeling bitter, but I haven't any sympathy for him now—he has shilly-shallied so long he would best forget it. Altogether Stephanie seems to have made a devil of a mess of it—with her husband, and the Amherst matter, and coming back the way she did, and refusing Lorraine's overtures for a reconciliation, and now his attitude. It makes a pretty problem in human frailties—and mistakes. There isn't a thing about the whole affair that is normal. Why in thunder didn't Lorraine get killed in the recent accident? No one would ever have missed him!"

"Those that will never be missed are usually the ones that can't be killed," Pendleton remarked. "However, so long as Amherst stays away there will be no killing—and Lorraine, in the meantime, may see reason. Let us hope for it—for Stephanie's sake."

"And if Lorraine does go into the killing business, I trust he will make a thorough job of it and wipe out both Amherst and himself. Clean the slate!"

"A clean slate for a fresh start," said Pendleton.

Devereux looked keenly at him.

"For a fresh start?" he inflected tentatively.

But Pendleton had resumed his smoke rings—and for a time there was silence.

Presently Devereux spoke:

"I didn't see you at the Croyden's last night."

"I wasn't there," replied Pendleton. "I came in from New York this morning. Was it interesting?"

"The Croyden functions are always interesting—some more so than others, but any of them will do for mine, thank you!—Lucky chap, Croyden!"

Pendleton nodded. "Not many girls would have done what Elaine Cavendish did: throw convention overboard and—because Croyden was poor and wouldn't, and she was rich and loved him—bridge the chasm and made it easy for him to cross to her."

"Elaine's a girl in a million!" Devereux declared. "I wish there were some more of that sort."

"Would you pick one?" Pendleton asked.

"Would I pick one? Well, rather, my friend."

"Why didn't you pick Elaine?"

"I wanted to but she wouldn't be picked—by me."

"I can't remember that you fussed her especially."

"I can't remember it myself; but I reckon I read my doom beforehand, and didn't go up against it. Elaine is a winner for looks, Pendleton. She was the loveliest thing last night I most ever saw—in a shimmering silver gown and—there was only one woman who was her equal in looks: Stephanie Lorraine. She's unbeatable—simply unbeatable!"

"I'm sorry I wasn't there!" laughed Pendleton.

"You should have been there. That bounder Porshinger was playing the devoted to her—had her in the conservatory for a half an hour." He glanced slyly at the other. "So long, indeed, as to occasion comment. I overheard some of the dowager tabby-cats mewing over it." He paused a moment, then asked seriously: "Pendleton, why don't you warn her of Porshinger's attentions? You can do it. He is up to no good, you may be sure—at least, no one will ever credit him with any good where Stephanie is concerned. You understand, old chap."

"Do you mean that people will suspect her?" Pendleton demanded.

"You and I and her other friends and the right-minded people won't, but there are a lot who will. It well be a fresh bit for them to roll over their tongues and to infer and imply the scandalous. The question is whether she can afford to have them do it—now."

"She is simply courteous and nice to him," Pendleton replied.

"I know she is. Yet why not be simply courteous, and let it go at that; what is the good of being nice to him?"

"No good at all—but——"

"I told Gladys she would regret having Porshinger to Criss-Cross. It's all due to that Sunday, damn it!"

"I don't think so," Pendleton said, with a shake of his head. "It may have accelerated it by a few weeks—Porshinger was sure to get in anyway."

"Get in! Of course he would get in!" Devereux exclaimed. "But he wouldn't have come in through the Chamberlain doorway—nor have had any opportunity to know Stephanie well. I can't see what Gladys meant by it—and yet she must have had some object. She is the last to do things on impulse."

"Here she comes—you might ask her," Pendleton remarked, as Miss Chamberlain appeared on the piazza through one of the low French-windows.

Both men arose and bowed.

"May I sit down?" she said. "I'm tired out and—thirsty. Get me some tea, please—and some toast, the soft kind." She removed her gloves and put up her veil. "It is charming here."

"Now it is!" said Devereux.

"Warwick," she smiled, "I've long ago learned that when you flatter you want something! What is it? Out with it."

"He must be in a condition of perpetual want," Pendleton derided.

"When Gladys is around, I am," Devereux agreed. "She keeps me on starvation rations, don't you know."

"Isn't that better than letting you starve?" Gladys asked.

"It is not comparable to being well fed," he responded.

"I can't devote all my time to providing for the needy," she smiled.

"You might at least give me the time you confer on Mr. Porshinger."

"So—that is the fly in the ointment, is it?" she asked.

"You're likely to find before you are through with him that you're the fly and not Porshinger," retorted Devereux.

"Then I shall look to you and Montague to come promptly to my rescue and fish me out."

"It would have been wiser never to have got in. However, as first aid to the injured, Monte and I are some class—and we're likely to be called on to fish someone else than you out of the ointment—that is to say, out of your friend Porshinger's clutches."

"I confess that I don't understand you," said Gladys. "Do you, Montague?"

"Do you, Montague?" sarcasmed Devereux.

"Well, seeing that we're just discussing the matter when you blew along, I sort of reckon he does. Tell the lady what it is, Monte; you advised me to ask her."

"Tell her yourself, you tattle-tale!" laughed Pendleton. "Gladys will understand the spirit in which I said it."

"You must admit that you didn't and don't approve!"

"Certainly—as I've already told Gladys; but I've not asked for her reasons. They are her own, I take it."

"And I'm just curious, you think? Well, let it go at that. I am curious, I admit it, to know—and Pendleton advised me to ask you, Gladys—why you invited Porshinger to Criss-Cross the other Sunday? You see what has been the result: the bars are down. Why did you do it?"

"Because I wanted to do it," she replied sweetly.

"Undoubtedly. You don't do much that you don't want to do—but what was your ulterior motive?"

"Was it so bad as that?" Gladys asked.

"Worse—far worse, I suspect."

"Then don't voice it—keep it dark."

"I will. I'll go away and leave you with Pendleton—and with an insane curiosity to know just what I suspect. In fact, you will give him no rest until he tells you.—See?" and with a laugh and a nod he arose and strolled away.

Gladys watched him with an amused smile until he turned the corner of the piazza—then she spoke.

"He doesn't suspect the real reason?" she asked.

Pendleton shook his head rather shortly.

"No more than that there was a reason," he answered. "A reason which, I fear, was very foolish and absurd. You see where it has led and is leading?—Were you at the Croydens last night?"

"For a little while."

"Did you see Stephanie?"

"Only for a moment."

"Where?"

"I don't recollect—in the drawing-room, I think."

"Was Porshinger with her?"

"Not that I remember."

"It is none of my affair, perhaps—more than a friend—but do you think it wise for Stephanie to have Porshinger dangling around her so much? I've been away for two weeks, and Devereux says that he has become exceedingly attentive recently—so much so, indeed, as to occasion comment of not the kindest sort.—I don't want to say anything to her on the matter, but you can—so, if you consider it expedient, you might mention it to her."

"Why don't you mention it yourself, Montague? You have the most influence with Stephanie, surely!"

"I don't think so," he replied, with a bit of a smile.

"A quarrel?" she asked.

He nodded. "Just before I went to Boston.—It's nothing serious, but I'm not exactly in a position to influence her until we have made it up."

"Then why don't you make it up?" Gladys demanded. "You would think you two were children."

"We are children. I'm ready to make it up any time, but I don't want to start it by finding fault with her recent conduct. It would hardly be conducive to the makeup, do you think?"

"The idea of Stephanie and you having a misunderstanding!" she exclaimed. "You ought to be sent back to the nursery—you overgrown infants."

"Granted again," he agreed.

"Whose fault was it?"

"Both, I imagine, to be accurate."

"Do you mind telling me what it was about?"

"No—I don't mind telling you, Gladys. It was about Porshinger. I cautioned Stephanie about letting him show her attention. She—well, one thing led to another and—we quarrelled. I had to leave town the following morning. I wrote to her from Boston; I was there a week, and she never replied to the letter."

"Maybe she didn't get it."

"Not likely; moreover, I passed her on Fifth Avenue last week—and she never saw me."

"Did she see you?" Gladys asked.

"Certainly she saw me; she looked straight at me."

"And you didn't speak?"

"Of course I didn't speak."

"Wasn't it just as much in your place to speak as in hers?" Gladys inflected.

"I thought not. My letter put it up to her."

"If she had received it. If not?"

"I'm assuming that she received it. Not many letters go astray."

"Why didn't you ask her if she had received it?"

"Would you?" he laughed.

"No—I think I wouldn't—but I'm a woman, you're a man."

"And my action was womanish, not mannish, you imply!"

She acquiesced with a nod and a smile.

"You might expect it from Stephanie—and excuse it; but I've not much patience with you, Montague Pendleton!"

"I see you haven't!" Pendleton grinned. "Well, I'm properly humble and contrite."

"According to your idea of the proper humbleness and contrition, I suppose," Gladys retorted.

"Which, however, is beside the way," he suggested. "Let us get back on the original road. I'll ask Stephanie if she received my letter, if you'll do what you can to make her see reason in the Porshinger matter. The latter is too sore a subject for me to broach, until you have had your say."

"Aren't you unduly sensitive! She hasn't done anything but be nice to him."

"She has done enough to provoke talk and 'set the old tabby-cats mewing,' as Devereux says—he heard them mewing at the Croydens. I don't like it, Gladys. Stephanie is hurting her chances for complete rehabilitation because of a foolish notion, as you know, and——"

"I don't know that it is foolish," Gladys interrupted.

"Well it is, nevertheless—and because of her quarrel with me. She's headstrong and a bit wilful and we must look out for her—you and I."

"Which you proceed to do by quarrelling with her."

"I was justified in quarrelling with her—you should have heard what she said. However, I admit that in this instance justification isn't an excuse. I'll apologize and make a fresh start—if she will let me."

"She'll let you!" laughed Gladys.

"Has she mentioned our quarrel to you?" he asked eagerly.

"Not a word—but if you show the proper spirit, she'll be only too glad to make up. I know it—trust me. You are the one man, Montague, whom she will permit to advise her."

"She didn't permit it—she resented it."

"Because you went at it in the wrong way. Stephanie Lorraine is the easiest girl in the world to manage if you handle her right—but if you don't——" an expressive shrug ended the sentence. "I think she has become more so, since the Amherst affair—which is entirely natural."

"I know it. I should have made every allowance for her," Pendleton concurred. "I'll fix it up with her if she will let me."

Miss Chamberlain smiled satisfiedly.

"She will let you, never fear, as I said before." She drank the last of her tea and put down the cup. "I just learned today," she said, "that shortly after Stephanie's return a resolution was introduced, by one of Lorraine's friends on the Board of Governors, requesting her resignation; that after a desperate fight it was held over until the next meeting—when it was voluntarily withdrawn by the mover. Is it true?"

"It is true—but I didn't know it had got out," he answered.

"I heard it only this morning. It was pretty well kept—for a Board secret."

"Yes—about four weeks overtime. Why is it that some one on the Board always leaks?"

"Why is it that almost everyone on the Board leaks?" she amended. "Talk about women not being able to keep a secret. If there is anything more gossippy and leaky than a man's club, I should like to know it."

He smiled tolerantly, with a good-natured air.

"Different sexes, different minds," he replied.

"But the same delight in gossip!" she retorted. "However, to return to the road, as you would say. What caused Lorraine's friend to have a change of heart, do you suppose?"

"Lorraine's accident and Stephanie's visit to him at the Hospital occurred on the same evening the Governors met. The postponement of the resolution was owing, I understand, to a hard fight by a couple of her friends on the Board. The subsequent action of the proposer was due to these facts—and to Lorraine's request."

"I see," nodded Miss Chamberlain. "Altogether that first visit to the Hospital—and the subsequent one—were the two wisest, most politic things Stephanie ever did. They accomplished more for her rehabilitation than she could have effected in a year's time. Even the Queen P's were mollified and were disposed to be nice—which Stephanie hasn't let them be yet, however. She is a bit wilful, Montague."

"She may be wilful in her resolve not to accept Lorraine's offer of reconciliation," said Pendleton. "What is your opinion?"

"On the ground of expediency, it would be better, beyond all question, for her to accept," said Gladys, "but if it were I—I'd die first. I fancy Stephanie is of the same mind."

"I fancy she is," Pendleton agreed.

Just then Stephanie herself appeared in the doorway.

She saw Gladys, and smiled and came toward her—not seeing Pendleton, who had his back toward her and was hidden by the tall chair in which he was sitting.

"Hello!" said Gladys.—"Come and join me in a cup of tea."

Pendleton slowly arose and turned—and Stephanie stopped short with a smothered exclamation!