“Latham,” said Frost, “you are a first-rate fellow to arrange things so that I can again meet the lovely Mrs. Milburn.” “‘Again meet her!’ then you know her already?” “Know her?” the brief interrogatory, with the accompanying shrug of the shoulders and significant laugh, formed a decided affirmative answer. A swift flush of indignation swept across Marrion Latham’s features. The manner of his companion annoyed him. “Why have you never called here before?” he asked, coldly. “We had a trifling misunderstanding some time ago. Report had it that she was somewhat interested in me, and that too, since my marriage to Frances Baxter.” “And it was to gain admission here that you insisted on Robert’s drinking last night, even after I asked you not to do it?” “Oh, no, I like Milburn and want to help him in his art. I was free to call without a special invitation, though I was not sorry when he insisted upon my coming.” “Hush! here they are.” The two men rose. Willard Frost’s gaze went straight to the tall, lithe figure that came forward to meet her guests. Nature had made of her so rare a painting--her’s was a beauty so spirituelle--that it awed to something like reverence, those who greeted her. The flush of indignation had disappeared from her face, but the excitement, the agitation through which she had passed had heightened her color as well as her beauty. The first thing that Marrion said, aside to Robert, was: “How is that head?” “That’s one on me, gentlemen. Have cigars, it’s my treat.” “With your gracious permission,” remarked Marrion, bowing to the hostess. “I am pleased to grant it, if you enjoy smoking,” and she handed them matches. “It is some time since we have met, Mrs. Milburn,” said Frost, with cold courtesy, while the other men were talking together. “Yes, it is quite a long time. Your wife is well, I trust.” “I am sorry, but I really can’t enlighten you on that point.” “Is she out of the city?” “I am told so. The fact is, she has recently taken a decided liking to a young actor. I understand that she is going upon the stage.” Cherokee was speechless. The coolness and impudence of that man had completely dumbfounded her. “She preferred histrionic art to my poor calling,” he continued; “I have instructed my attorneys to take the necessary legal steps to leave her free to follow it.” Here Robert and Marrion joined them, and the conversation became general. “By the way,” said Latham, when they got up to leave, “I had almost forgotten my special mission; I came to invite you to a box party next Wednesday evening.” “We shall be most charmed to go,” replied Cherokee, who had resolved to make herself agreeable. “What is the play?” “It is my latest.” “We shall be well entertained, if it is one of yours,” cried Robert enthusiastically. “And the name of your play, Mr. Latham?” “When Men Should Blush.” “An odd title, but he is famous for thinking of things that no one else ever thought of,” put in Frost.