"I don't think he knows her, except casually," said Wren. Then he kindled. "I've been up to her place several times; she has a wonderful little apartment uptown, and gives small musical affairs there. She has the voice of an angel! She's thinking of giving some big recitals later in the season. Not for the money--she doesn't need that: but for some charity she's interested in. She knows all the big musical people. They say Caruso advised her to go into opera, but she won't do that." Luncheon arrived. Wren was too absorbed in his subject to be observant, or he might have noticed a singular change in Dorothy's manner. Her careless gayety had quite departed. In its stead, there appeared an active and keen interest, a tense eagerness. She seemed suddenly all on the alert, as though she had glimpsed some antagonist and were seeking an opening for her weapons. And so, in fact, she had. "Do you know Macgowan well, Jimmy?" she asked presently. "Not very much, outside the office. A wonderful chap, isn't he? Been splendid to me, too; put me up at clubs and that sort of thing. He's pretty deep, too." "Just what do you mean by that?" "Well, it's hard to say." Wren hesitated. "He seems to be all on the surface, but he's not. He knows more than you'd think. There are good solid depths to him." Dorothy abruptly changed the subject. When they rose to leave, the party of three near the entrance were still in place. Jimmy Wren was close behind Dorothy. As they passed the table, the woman who called herself Mrs. Bird Fowler glanced up, met the gaze of Dorothy--and into her eyes leaped sudden, startled recognition. Dorothy halted, with every appearance of delighted surprise. "Dorothy Deming!" exclaimed the other woman, almost mechanically. "Why, Viola Bland!" broke from Dorothy at the same instant. "Who on earth would have thought of meeting you here--and how well you're looking! I'm so glad to see you!" "Won't you sit down--" "Oh, my dear, I'm simply rushed to death! We're very late now--I daren't stop even for a minute. Call me up some day, won't you? Mrs. Reese Armstrong, you know--good-by!" Dorothy swept on. At the entrance she turned to Jimmy Wren. His face was indescribable. "Leave the wraps, Jimmy. Come and sit down. I want to talk with you." He obeyed meekly, a man inwardly stricken. They turned into the lounge and Dorothy took possession of a sofa. "Light a cigarette, Jimmy. You need it." "I do," he assented bitterly, and drew a deep breath. "By gad! Isn't there a mistake?" His very tone showed that he knew there was no mistake. Dorothy leaned back and in silence studied him for a moment or two. She was not enjoying her triumph; when Wren looked up and met her eyes, he realized this. "Jimmy, it hurt," she said simply. "Can't you see why I did it? Because I like you. Because Reese likes you. I suppose she always wears white? Some people do; it seems to be a matter of necessity."