"Nice mail!" exclaimed Katrine appreciatively, as she glanced over her budget. "Some one told me yesterday that the invitations for the Barfield Garden Party were out, and I felt a qualm in case ours had been overlooked. Here it is, however, safe and sound. Tuesday, July 9. Over six weeks! What a fearsomely long invitation! I do love that afternoon at Barfield; it is a very zoological garden of lions. If they could only be labelled, how interesting it would be! You will come with me to Barfield, Martin?" "Oh, I suppose so. Possibly. If nothing happens." Martin Beverley's voice hardly echoed his sister's gratification. He spoke with the air of a man laboriously anxious to be agreeable, but his lifted eyes held no sparkle of light. Then they fell upon the violet envelope, and he spoke again:-- "From Grizel, is it not? What has she to say?" Katrine laughed with light amusement. "The usual Grizel! Nothing whatever that's worth repeating. I often wonder why I write to her at all, for her replies are nothing but a paraphrase of my own letters. This one for example. She is sorry it was wet for the picnic; she is glad you are enjoying your golf; how nice it is that the garden is looking so well! She echoes all my sentiments and thoughts, but"--Katrine's lips curved with laughter, "in her own way! It's just the Grizel touch which transforms the whole. Little wretch! she can make even a paraphrase charming." Martin helped himself to another slice of crisp brown toast. His sister's description of her friend's letter had not been enthralling, nevertheless his eyes dwelt upon it with a persistence which was easily understood. Martin wanted to read Grizel's effusion for himself. Katrine was perfectly aware of the fact, but a latent obstinacy, for which she would have found it difficult to account, prevented her from granting his desire. There was nothing whatever in the letter which could interest a grown man. She persistently looked the other way, waiting in silence until he should speak again. "Are you going to ask Grizel for the Barfield Garden Party?" Katrine looked up sharply, her tell-tale face betraying the fact that the suggestion was not to her taste. "Grizel! To Barfield. I never thought of it. Why should I?" "She would enjoy it. She hasn't been here for some time." Katrine looked down, and drummed on the table impatiently. A moment before she had been decidedly pale; now there was a suspicion of temper in the quick reddening of her cheeks. Her lips were pressed together as though to keep back impetuous words, but before the pause had time to grow serious, she had put another question, with an air of elaborate calm: "Do you wish her to be invited?" "Well!" Martin Beverley waved his hand carelessly, "it was a suggestion. I thought you might be glad of her company, and Grizel can always be trusted to turn herself out well. She would do you credit."