Miss Marks was punctual that morning, as usual.

She looked like a creature of moods and storms and sudden revolts, but her behaviour as a typist-stenographer belied her appearance as a woman. Not only was she always on time, but she was invariably correct in her deportment. Yes, "deportment" was the word! No other would have enough dignity to express Miss Marks.

As a rule, Mrs. Sorel came into the salon soon after the arrival of the secretary, leaving no idle interval after the preparation of paper, pencils, and sorting of letters. ZÉlie Marks remembered only one occasion when Miss Sorel had appeared before her mother. That was the day when she was anxious to find a certain letter in the bulky pile of correspondence, and make sure that no eye spied it save her own.

ZÉlie happened to be thinking of that affair to-day, when the door of Marise's bedroom opened and a Vision showed itself upon the threshold. "Good morning, Miss Marks," it said.

"Good morning, Miss Sorel," echoed its paid employÉe.

The said employÉe would not have been human had she never felt qualms of envy of the Vision. Sometimes it was merely a negative discomfort like a grumbling tooth that doesn't quite ache. Sometimes it was sharply positive; and this was such a moment. Queer! ZÉlie always envied Marise most when she saw the girl in what Mrs. Sorel called "undress uniform."

There were few young women even among wage-earners who couldn't make a fairly brave show in a neat tailor gown or a "Sunday best" for Church Parade. But only the Truly Rich could have such heavenly "undies," and only the young and lovely—lovely of figure as well as of face—could look in them more thrilling than the wondrous wax ladies in shop windows, or the willowy dreams of line-artists in fashion magazines.

ZÉlie had never had, and felt that she never would have (though she was sure she ought to have!) such things as Marise Sorel wore in her bedroom. They were utterly absurd, almost indecent, she told herself. What could be more idiotic for cold weather than a pale pink, low-necked, short-sleeved chiffon nightgown, with the only solid thing about it a few embroidered wild roses! What more brainless than a robe de chambre of deeper pink silk georgette, trimmed with sable fur in all the places where fur couldn't possibly give warmth?

She, ZÉlie Marks, wore comfortable delaine night-dresses at this time of year, and wadded kimonos. She respected herself for her economy and good sense. But she wished she were Miss Sorel!

"Miss Marks," said Marise, "can you keep a secret?"

ZÉlie smiled. "In my work, I have to keep a good many."

"I suppose you do! Well, will you keep one for me?"

"Certainly."

"That's a promise! Now—I shall surprise you very much."

ZÉlie smiled politely, and waited.

"I'm—going to be married."

"Pardon me, Miss Sorel," said ZÉlie, in rather a stilted, professional manner, "but that doesn't surprise me at all."

"You haven't heard the name of the man yet."

"No. You haven't told me that."

"You mean, you believe you've guessed?"

"I hope you don't think me presumptuous?"

"Of course not! Why should it be—such a long word? Guessing's free! But I wonder if you have guessed?"

ZÉlie allowed herself to look slightly bored. If Miss Sorel were going to be married, and leave for England, she wouldn't want a secretary long, so there was no need to grovel! "Do you wish me to try?" she asked primly.

"Yes."

"The Earl of Severance."

Marise had known she would say that, yet she blushed. "Lord Severance and I are quite old pals," she replied. "This is something much newer and more exciting! I'm going to marry your friend Major Garth."

There were few warmer-hearted girls, few who hated more to give pain, than Marise, yet as she spoke she fixed her eyes—minx-like, if not lynx-like—on the face of Miss Marks. Even when she saw it go pale—that greenish pallor of olive complexions—and then a dull, unbecoming red which gave the dark eyes a bloodshot effect, she wasn't conscious of repentance for what she had done. She had an odd, unpleasant feeling that Miss Marks had no right to turn pale and red about a man she was going to marry. So instead of softening, she went on, hard as nails.

"Don't forget it's a great secret. I want to spring a surprise on everyone. Will you please 'phone him—Major Garth—at the Belmore for me? I haven't got time now to call him myself. Just ask him to come round in three-quarters of an hour. I'll have had my coffee and be dressed by then, if I rush."

"Very well, Miss Sorel," agreed ZÉlie, controlling her voice. After which she added, "I hope you'll allow me to congratulate you."

Marise laughed a funny little laugh. "Thanks! But doesn't one 'wish joy' to the bride and 'congratulate' the bridegroom?"

By this time ZÉlie was at the telephone, but she turned, and her black eyes darted at Marise one small flame of the fire in her heart. "I wish you joy, of course," she said. "But I must congratulate you too, because I've known Ja—Major Garth since before the war, and I know what he is. He's great! If you lumped together most of the best men you've met, they wouldn't make one John Garth!"

"Ha ha! he is very big!" giggled Marise. "Quite an out-size."

ZÉlie could have boxed the ears under the delicious boudoir cap. They deserved to be boxed!

"His soul is big!" the older girl snapped. "I only hope you—I mean, there aren't many women capable of appreciating him. But, of course, you must be, or you wouldn't have succumbed to him so soon."

"Succumbed!" Marise flung back the word with just the least shrug of her shoulders. For an instant the two glared at each other, though "glare" is a melodramatic word which doesn't chime well with nicely-brought-up girls in the twentieth century. When Marise, as a child, had looked at anyone in that way, she called it "snorting with her eyes."

Now, it was only for a third of a second. Then Miss Marks applied herself to the telephone, and never had her neat back looked so square and business-like. There was no more time to waste upon useless repartees with a secretary, so Marise bolted to her own room.

She meant and wished to be dressed and fed in three-quarters of an hour, but never had she quite brought off that feat—at least, never since she'd become a successful star; and she didn't quite bring it off now. Her hair was being done when Mums tapped and entered upon the scene. She looked grave and rather worried, though she never actually frowned, for fear of wrinkles.

"That man Garth has come," she announced in a low voice. "What an hour for a call! Do you wish to see him?"

"I sent for him," Marise explained. "Didn't he tell you? Or haven't you spoken to him?"

"I have spoken to him, but he didn't tell me," said Mary Sorel. "I came into the salon, and there he was with Miss Marks. I was never so surprised in my life!"

"I don't see why, as you know perfectly well I'm going to marry him," returned Marise. "Oh, CÉline! you've dug a hairpin about an inch into my head! Now mind, whatever you hear us say must go no further."

"But certainly not, Mademoiselle," vowed CÉline, who spoke excellent English, though the two ladies loved proudly to air their French for her benefit. "It is indeed true that Mademoiselle will marry this Monsieur American?"

"It is indeed true," Marise repeated drily.

"It won't take place—I mean the wedding—for some time, however," Mrs. Sorel hurried to add.

Marise said nothing, but looked suddenly as mulish as a beautiful girl can look. She had been wondering whether or no to confide in Mums what was in her mind, and see what Mums would say and think about it. But on the instant she decided "No." She knew beforehand what Mums would think and say. Everything would be from Tony's point of view. Mums was obsessed with the wonder and majesty and glory of the great—soon to be the rich—Lord Severance! The news should be sprung on Mums at the last moment, when everything was "fixed up."

Meanwhile, ZÉlie was snatching a few words with Garth—not the words she wanted personally to speak, but as nearly those as she dared.

"Jack Garth!" she whispered, "Miss Sorel told me just now you and she are going to be married. She wasn't joking?"

"I hope not," said Garth steadily, "because I'd be—rather cut up if I thought it was a joke."

"Listen, Jack," ZÉlie hurried on. "We're pals—we've been pals for a long time. I want you to be happy. I'd do a whole lot to make you happy. So you've just got to forgive me if I say.... Do you know what you're doing? Can you be happy? That girl—I mean, Miss Sorel—doesn't love you any more than she does me. And that isn't a little bit!"

"I love her," said Garth. "I don't care a damn whether I'm happy or not."

"Oh! Then it's all right. Of course, I suppose you know your own business. Still—Jack—I can't help feeling there's something queer—some sort of mystery. Don't let yourself be deceived."

"I'm not being deceived."

"I hope not, I'm sure. But—oh, do forgive me!—it's Lord Severance she loves."

"Then the sooner she unloves him the better it will be all around."

"I know you think I'm a meddler. But remember we're friends. Remember Mothereen told me to be your friend, Jack. Those two Sorel women think Severance the perfect beau ideal of a man. They look upon you—oh, I can't say it!"

"You needn't," Garth drily assured her; "I'm a cad; a bounder; a lout."

"The beasts! I hate them both!" ZÉlie gasped. "They're not worthy to black your boots."

"I mostly wear brown ones," said Garth.

"You're right to snub me. I won't say any more. You must go your own way, and I hope—I hope with all my heart" (ZÉlie choked a little) "you'll never regret it. But just this one thing let me beg you to do. Whatever they're up to, don't give them the chance to despise you. I mean, in little things. They can't in big! I saw the way they looked at—at your clothes Sunday afternoon, Jack. I could have thrown something at them!—not the clothes, but the Sorels—and Severance, the conceited Greek snob! But the clothes weren't right, boy. They didn't do you justice. They had a sort of 'Sunday-go-to-meeting' look: kind of smug! And your gloves and shoes just the wrong yellow! For heaven's sake don't lose a minute in going to a good tailor if you don't want your life to be a hell!"

Garth laughed out, a hard, spasmodic laugh; and at that instant Marise came in.