"I don't care whether I know him or not as long as it's a good restaurant." "Don't talk that way, Doris!" "Why not? It's true." There was a silence. Doris set aside the empty bowl, yawned, looked at the clock, yawned again. "This is too late for Catharine," she said, drowsily. "I know it is. Who are the people she's with?" "Genevieve Hunting--I don't know the men:--some of Genevieve's friends." "I hope it's nobody from Winton's." There had been in the Greensleeve family, a tacit understanding that it was not the thing to accept social attentions from anybody connected with the firm which employed them. Winton, the male milliner and gown designer, usually let his models alone, being in perpetual dread of his wife; but one of the unhealthy looking sons had become a nuisance to the girls employed there. Recently he had annoyed Catharine, and the girl was afraid she might have to lunch with him or lose her position. Doris yawned again, then shivered. "Go to bed, ducky," said Athalie. "I'll wait up for Catharine." So Doris took herself off to bed and Athalie sank into the shabby arm-chair by the radiator to wait for her other sister. It was two o'clock when she came in, flushed, vague-eyed, a rather silly and fixed smile on her doll-like face. Athalie, on the verge of sleep, rose from her chair, rubbing her eyes: "What on earth, Catharine--" "We had supper,--that's why I'm late.... I've got to have a dinner gown I tell you. Genevieve's is the smartest thing--" "Where did you go?" "To the Regina. I didn't want to--dressed this way but Cecil Reeve said--" "Who?" "Cecil--Mr. Reeve--one of Genevieve's friends--the man who was so crazy to meet me--" "Oh! Who else was there?" asked Athalie drily. "A Mr. Ferris--Harry Ferris they call him. He's quite mad about Genevieve--" "Why did you drink anything?" "I?" "You did, didn't you?" "I had a glass of champagne." "What else?" "Nothing--except something pink in a glass--before we sat down to supper.... And something violet coloured, afterward." "Your breath is dreadful; do you realise it?" Catharine seemed surprised, then her eyes wandered vaguely, drowsily, and she laid her gloved hand on Athalie's arm as though to steady herself. "What sort of man is your new friend, Cecil Reeve?" inquired Athalie. "He's nice--a gentleman. And they were so amusing;--we laughed so much.... I told him he might call.... He's really all right, Athalie--" "And Mr. Ferris?" "Well--I don't know about him; he's Genevieve's friend;--I don't know him so well.... But of course he's all right--a gentleman--" "That's the trouble," said Athalie in a low voice. "What is the trouble?" "These friends of yours--and of Doris, and of mine ... they're gentlemen.... And that is why we find them agreeable, socially.... But when they desire social amusement they know where to find it." "Where?"