"I must say, it is most marked, her not inviting you," said Mrs. Rattray, as she rose at last. "Several people noticed it, and Mrs. Gordon was wondering why you had not come; 'the show was so much in your line.' Of course, I did not tell her why you stayed away; at any rate, you will see one of the frocks on Sunday, a white Chinese silk, much too young for Mrs. Dawson; I'm sure she is long past forty. Well, good-bye, dear, I knew you'd be dying to hear all about the exhibition, so I just ran in to tell you." And then Mrs. Rattray bustled out to her victoria, leaving her stricken hostess to digest her news as best she might. Alas! what were two or three pretty muslins, or even a new lilac foulard, against Mrs. Dawson's battle array, gowns direct from Doucet and Rouff? Oh, money must tell in the end! and, burying her face among her sofa cushions,—for she was weak and run down,—Mrs. Wilkinson wept long and bitterly, she who but five minutes ago had been all animation and smiles. Two mornings later, Mrs. Rattray encountered Mrs. Dawson in the club library. Greatly to her surprise, the latter accosted her at once; for, as a rule, she merely bestowed a cool nod. "Have you heard about my dresses?" she began excitedly. "But you forget that I have inspected them," said the other; "I never saw anything half so exquisite, or so——" "Exquisite no longer!" broke in Mrs. Dawson with a catch in her voice; "what do you think? I had some friends to my little show yesterday, all the gowns laid out in my bedroom, just as when you came,—and then we went into the drawing-room to tea. After they had left, I sent for the ayah, intending to help her to fold the things, and put them in tissue paper." Here she paused for breath, and seemed curiously agitated. "Why, yes, of course," assented Mrs. Rattray. She stood with her hands on the back of a chair, facing the narrator, and wondering at her emotion. It was something novel to see Mrs. Dawson, of all people, thus mentally dishevelled. "When I went into my room with a light," she resumed, "I found that all my beautiful things had been cut to pieces—into little—little bits!" "What!" cried Mrs. Rattray, raising her voice till it was almost a scream. "Yes, every one of them, and done most systematically—nothing escaped, not even my poor feather fan, nor a hat, or a blouse. The ayah kept crying, 'Look, look, look,' till I was sick of looking. Sleeves were hacked out of dresses, great pieces slashed out of the bodices, skirts cut right across, in all directions; even the artificial flowers were torn to pieces, and the fingers snipped off my evening gloves." She paused, and there was a dead silence, for Mrs. Rattray could find no words adequate to the occasion. She simply stared, with her topee pushed back, from her forehead, and her lips wide apart. "And—the grey _crêpe_?" she stammered out at last.