She was alone. The harp, unveiled, glimmered in a corner, but Mademoiselle Ludérac was not there; and, like a stately, furbelowed old fish, their hostess glided forward, her manner majestically attuned to the significance of the occasion. How many years was it since she had given an evening party? How many years, Jill wondered, since she had worn that looped and flounced silk skirt, that tightly fitted bodice trimmed with jet? Bravely décolleté in its original state, friendly fingers had adjusted the black net sleeves and black lace tucker and tied the velvet bow under the old lady's ear. She held a fan with broken, gilded sticks, her festive head was draped with the lace mantilla, and, in the monotonous room, her painted lips were like a brilliant flower.
'Charmée—charmée de vous voir,' she murmured, in the odd, mincing tones that Graham had heard from her before; but the artifice broke down; the currents of her delight swept all ceremony from her voice. 'Vous êtes bons! Vous êtes charmants!' she exclaimed. 'Et Dieu!—que vous êtes beaux.'
They had each taken her by a hand and, thus held, she looked at them, and over them, with lustrous eyes. 'Que vous êtes beaux,' she repeated.
'Et que vous êtes belle,' said Jill.—'Isn't she marvellous, Dick?'
Graham bent his high, dark head, and kissed the old lady's hand.
'Ah, infidèle!' she said, and her voice trembled; 'here are two whole days that you leave me disconso-
