A little late, when all the estimable guests were visibly becoming uneasy, a woman entered the room, who changed the whole complexion of the party. Like a wild bird lighting in the poultry yard, Wilfred thought. She was about his own age with miscellaneous American features, not in the least beautiful. But she had the divine carriage of Diana, and Diana’s arrowy glance. Never had Wilfred beheld that proud, free glance in living woman. What a glorious spirit it betokened! So defiant and desirable it rendered him helpless. She was wearing a dress of tomato red, partly misted with smoke-colored net. Nothing of yesteryear about _her_! Though she and all her works must have been anathema to the drab ones, Wilfred observed that they were inclined to fawn upon her. Obviously, that girl could get away with anything, anywhere, Wilfred thought. At the table he was terrified and delighted to discover that she was to be on the other side of him. She sat down, talking busily to her companion. Wilfred stole a glance at her place card. “Miss Elaine Sturges.” It had the effect of striking a gong. Elaine Sturges! Wilfred had not been above reading of the doings of the butterflies he despised; the Sturgeses of North Washington Square; elect of the elect! For several seasons she had been chief amongst the unmarried girls. It appeared that no entertainment was complete without her. Merely from having her name so often printed, the lustre of fame was about her plainly-dressed brown head; and Wilfred’s imagination was dazzled afresh. While he sagely nodded his head in agreement with Mrs. Varick’s ambling comment, he sought in his mind to have ready some arresting thing to say, when his chance came. But his mind was a blank. He happened not to be looking in that direction when a contralto voice said near his ear: “I say, who are you? Your place card is covered up.” Wilfred jumped. “Wilfred Pell,” he said, smiling. “I thought I knew all the Pells.” “I’m only an offshoot. A scribbling Pell.” “Didn’t think such a thing was possible!” They laughed, knowing the Pell characteristics. Wilfred thought: She has not read my stories. . . . But why should she? I must say something at once, or she’ll turn back to the other man. . . . When it came, it sounded feeble. “I hate to be asked my name. I dislike it so much!” “What, Wilfred?” she asked carelessly. “Yes, it is rather in the Percy and Harold class.” “One’s mouth takes such a foolish shape in saying it.” Her cool, strong glance sought his eyes appraisingly. There was a thought in her eyes that she did not utter; but he read it. “You think Wilfred suits me?” he said smiling, and sore at heart. “I wasn’t thinking,” she said coolly. “. . . You have nice eyes.” Nice eyes! At that moment it was like an insult. And so good-humored about it! He struggled with a crushing sense of inferiority. “Well, at any rate, you are well-named,” he said.