Early in April Hepworth returned to New York. It was a gentle, smiling April, inclining more to laughter than to tears and striving to obliterate the memories of March. He arrived one evening and wasted no time in communicating with Perdita. The next day in fact was marked by the passage of notes between them, severely businesslike, and yet models of courtesy.

The result of these diplomatic negotiations was that Mr. Cresswell Hepworth, at a suitable hour the following morning, wended his way to his wife's business establishment.

It was a deliciously balmy morning, the rare sort of a day that slips in now and then between April showers and sets one dreaming of the glory of the spring in the silent woody places. The great, roaring canyons of brick and stone floated in a silvery, sparkling mist, and in that atmospheric alembic dreary perspectives assumed an unsubstantial and fairy-like beauty. The little leaves on the trees fluttered in the soft breeze and were so young, so green, so gay that they lifted the heart like tiny wings of joy.

In spite of himself there was the hint of a smile about the corners of Hepworth's mouth and this deepened and deepened until as he rang the bell of his wife's door, he suddenly became conscious of it, and carefully suppressed it.

The sphinx, past mistress of inscrutability of expression, would have paid him the tribute of a flicker of admiration as he entered the reception-room. It was without a suggestion of curiosity or even interest in his eyes that he glanced absently about him; perhaps the long droop of the lids at the corners, which appeared to accentuate his rather weary and listless gaze, was more marked than usual, but this was always so when he was making mental notes and registering his observations with the rapidity and accuracy of a ticker.

He awaited Perdita in her reception-room, that charming apartment, and here, in view of certain events which occurred later, it would be well to give the plan of the first floor.

This room opened from the hall and ran the length of the house with windows at the front looking out upon the street while those in the rear opened upon a strip of garden. There was another door at the lower end of the room, which, with the long room, formed an ell, and terminated the hall.

Dita kept Hepworth waiting a bare moment. Her approach was unkindly noiseless, but nevertheless he heard her, and was on his feet, his eyes meeting hers full as she appeared in the doorway. The conventional banalities of greeting were gone through with ease on his part, grace on hers.

Merciful banalities! They gave him time to consider the change in her, a change which was to him sufficiently striking almost to have trapped him into an expressed surprise, and this change was so subtle that he wondered that it should yet be so apparent. It was not a matter of outward appearance, that remained the same in effect. It was a mental change so animating and vital that Cresswell felt all former estimates of her crumble. Had she always been so, and had he never really seen her until now? Had time and absence in some way cleared his obscured vision? He felt a momentary sense of confusion, a brief mental giddiness, and then he pulled himself together. The first impression was the correct one. She had changed, and thereby had gained, gained tremendously in poise.

But there was no time now in which to analyze impressions.

"So this is the magic parlor where all the ugly women are transformed into beauties." He looked about him as if he had not thought to glance at her surroundings before. "The presence of mere man here seems rather profane, do you not think so? Ah, well, my stay is brief. You have proved, haven't you, that it is not an impossibility after all, to paint the lily and gild refined gold?"

"So few women have any taste," she said carelessly. "And oh, their houses! You should see them when I go over their hideous houses like a devouring flame and ruthlessly order out all their dreadful junk. And the most awful objects are always the most precious in their eyes. I feel so sorry for them. I have always a guilty sense of being a naughty boy robbing a bird's nest, and the poor mother birds stand around and flap their wings and hop and shriek. It's very mournful, but they needn't have me if they don't want me."

He laughed. "And Maud? Is she, too, well and happy?"

Dita lifted her hands and eyes. "That is a very tame way of describing her. Her gowns are dreams this spring, she is considered almost a beauty; people, you see, are gradually forgetting that she was ever 'that plain Maud Carmine who plays nicely,' and Wallace Martin and herself are engaged to be married." A faint, amused smile crept around her mouth at this announcement.

Hepworth looked up with sudden interest. "Indeed! Well, that might have been expected, I dare say, but will it not rather seriously interfere with the business?"

"No," she shook her head. "No, I think not, Maud has no intention of quitting. Wallace's plays are more or less problematical and Maud has invested a good deal of her money in this. It is really paying remarkably well, you know."

"Dita," his voice was low, and he could not conceal the chagrin, the touch of pain in it. "Why have you never touched a cent of your own money, since my departure? I only learned a few days ago that you had not. I can not begin to tell you how it made me feel. It not only distressed but deeply wounded me."

She twisted a little in her chair. "It—it has never been necessary," she said. "We began to make money at once. Really, Cresswell, Maud and I have prospered beyond our wildest dreams."

"But suppose you had not. Is your prosperity the only reason you have not touched it? Would you have done so under any circumstances? That is what I have been asking myself for the past week, and am now asking you."

She flushed uncertainly. "Ah," she said. "I can not answer you that. I can not tell. One never knows what one will do when the pinch comes."

He smiled faintly. "I'll not put any more embarrassing questions to you, but confine myself to perfectly safe topics. You are looking very well."

"I am well."

"And happy? But there, that is hardly a safe topic, is it?"

A sudden light came into her eyes, making them warm and softly bright. She smiled at him with a fresh, almost childlike enthusiasm. "Yes, I'm happy," she said, "happier than I've ever been in all my life. Why, Cresswell, it's been fun, fun. There's been lots of work, and lots of planning, but nevertheless, I've never enjoyed anything so much in my life. Often I go to bed at night tired out, but it's always with a comforting sense of satisfaction. It's all so varied and interesting, you know, but it isn't that that makes me happy." She clasped her hands and looked up at him with an unconscious appeal for sympathy and understanding in her eyes. "It's better than that, better than anything else. It's meant success, think of it, success. Not a horrid, little picayune one either, but a nice, big one."

He leaned forward and looked at her curiously as if he really saw her for the first time.

"Why, Dita," he exclaimed, "has it meant so much to you as that?"

"Indeed, yes." There was ardor, fervor in her answering exclamation. "I can not tell you how much. I believe I was really morbid on the subject. I believed in failure as a real atmosphere always encompassing me. I had all manner of superstitions, beliefs about it. I believed that with all my strength and youth and energy, I was yet doomed by fate to a tomb of inaction. I seemed so futile, so ineffective. With a restless, active brain I accomplished nothing. You see that was such a dreadful experience, my attempt to earn my living before I married you, and I was so ignorant and inexperienced of every condition of life in which I found myself, that it prevented me from striking out boldly, from believing in myself. So I made the fatal mistake of beginning small, and began to paint all those wretched little articles, and it wasn't my mÉtier at all, Cresswell, really it wasn't, so, naturally, I failed. And," as if it had suddenly occurred to her, "I have found it so interesting to dress Miss Fleming. Designing her costumes has been fascinating."

"That was a very wonderful and a very clever thing of you to do, Perdita." There was a tone in his voice she did not understand. She began to praise Fuschia and he leaned back in his chair listening. She could see the mere gleam of his eyes between his almost closed lids. She wondered if he had really heard one word she had said. In reality he was bestowing upon her such attention and study as he had never dreamed of giving her before. She felt, however, in spite of his apparent indifference, that he was so far in sympathy with her, that she was impelled in spite of herself to continue her confidences.

"Do you know, Cresswell, it's a horrible thing to be considered a beauty. Oh, you may laugh," he could not help his mirth. "I know beauty is supposed to be the heart's desire of every woman; but there are many drawbacks. Every one, without exception, takes it for granted that you are a fool. Your sense is always considered in reverse ratio to your good looks, and then, it's such an uncertain thing. Just when you need it most to console you for the disappointments and disillusions of life, it departs, and horrid things, wrinkles and gray hairs, take its place."

"Perdita! What an absurd creature you are!"

"Ah, Cresswell," her tone was pensive. "You have always been successful. You can not imagine what failure feels like, that deadening, hopeless sensation." She was vehement enough now.

"Can I not?" At last he lifted his drooping lids and looked straight at her. "My dear Dita, I can give you cards and spades on every emotion of failure you have ever felt. I recall one case in particular, where I failed so conspicuously and brilliantly, that I am overcome with surprise at my own stupidity every time I think of it. But as you have been talking that case has reverted again and again to my mind, and it has struck me that there is still a chance that I pursued the wrong tactics."

She drew back wounded. He had then, as she had once or twice suspected, not been listening to a word she said, and how his cold face had glowed at the mere thought of retrieving a business blunder.

Hepworth got up and began walking about the room. "And Gresham, what of him?" he asked presently, breaking the silence which had fallen between them.

"He is quite well, I believe," she was furious at the conscious note which crept into her voice, at the scarlet which flew to her cheek, but one thing she had never been able to endure and that was any evidence of cowardice in herself. She lifted her eyes bravely to his and held them there. "He has been in town since January," she said. "I have seen him very often."

"Ah, painting as brilliantly as ever, I dare say? A genius, Eugene! Unquestionably."

Again silence fell between them, and lasted until she broke it with the constrained question: "Are you—are you going to be here for some time now?"

"No, I shall have to be in London more or less during the summer, but I have some matters which must be attended to first. By the way," as if struck by a sudden thought, "what are your plans for the summer?"

"I have made none. I have not even thought of such things yet. I dare say I shall go somewhere for a bit of a change, but," with a smile, "business is so very brisk."

He laughed and took one or two more turns up and down the room.

"Dita, do you remember that I told you once that you were a remarkably clever woman? Well, I merely wish to call that fact to your attention, and reiterate my statement. Oh, I must tell you, I have a new amulet, a wonder. I will tell you the history of it when you have more time. You have the case in your keeping have you not? And the tray with the one empty space?"

The blood rushed to her face. "I have the case," she said coldly. "It is locked in my safe here. Do you wish it now?"

"No," he shook his head. "Wait until I bring the amulet. May I bring it late Wednesday afternoon? And why not dine with me then? Say you will, Dita. Give the world something to talk of, something to puzzle over." She had never seen him so eager.

She hesitated a bare second. "I will. Yes, I will be very glad to," but lifting her eyes to his: "Are you so sure that one of those amulet trays has an empty space?"

"It had when I last saw it." His voice was unreadable.

"But that is months ago; perhaps you will think differently when you see it Wednesday evening."

There was a flash over his face, which vanished as quickly as it had appeared. He drew nearer to her as if about to speak, then apparently reconsidered the intention. "I really must not keep you longer," he picked up his hat. "Of course, there are a number of matters to be discussed, but they can wait. We will reserve them for Wednesday evening. Good-by." He held out his hand. She placed hers in it.

"Good-by," she returned.