From across the table Wilfred could feel Frances Mary congeal. He looked up with too much of a start, and rose. His face felt as if it were turning red and green. He despairingly hoped that with the passage of the years he had acquired a modicum of inscrutability. The sight of her took his breath away. She had blossomed in splendor. Most beautifully dressed, of course, but that was not it; the spirit of the woman shone out of her array. Queenly. There was not a woman in the room who could approach her. And an entirely good-humored queen! According to Wilfred’s calculations, her eyes at least ought to have betrayed wretchedness; but they were serenely clear. His whole scheme of things tottered; he felt like a clown. “Hello!” he cried with a false heartiness. “What a fortunate accident! . . . This is my wife . . . Mrs. Kaplan.” “How do you do?” said Elaine, putting out her hand, and looking at Frances Mary with frank and friendly curiosity. She was likewise saying to herself: So this is what you’re like! Wilfred and Joe shook hands, and Joe was duly presented to Frances Mary. Wilfred was even more astonished at Joe’s appearance. Young, slim, clear-skinned, at the highest point in the arc of manhood’s vigor; where were the marks of an evil nature, of evil living, that ought to have shown before now? Standing close to him, Wilfred observed the peachy quality of Joe’s skin, verging into a cool grey upon his miraculously shaven chin. In seven years Joe’s face had grown in composure; the habit of authority had given it a high look. One of the leaders of men! Wilfred thought with twisted bitterness. Well . . . one must face it! He felt reluctantly drawn to Joe. For the thousandth time he wished he were not so at the mercy of physical beauty. But presently the bitterness passed with the thrilling thought: What regions there are in man still to explore! “You still live in New York?” Elaine said to Wilfred. “How is it we never see you?” “Well, we hardly move in the same circles,” said Wilfred smiling, and immediately sensible that he could scarcely have said a worse thing. “This is too good a chance to be lost,” said Elaine, looking around for a chair. “May we sit down with you for a minute?” “By all means,” said Wilfred, signalling to a waiter. Inwardly he cursed the situation. Frances Mary was smiling like plate glass. It will take me hours, days perhaps, to bring her round, he thought despairingly. No more did Joe welcome the situation. “My dear,” he said, “the Beekmans have seen us. They are signalling.” How strangely that “My dear!” rang through the corridors of Wilfred’s consciousness! He thought of the seven years of intimacy between these two. Face to face, stripped of all disguise—but _had_ they ever revealed their souls to each other? One would never know!