“Oh!” said Vincent. “Men are always to blame.” “Could he have forgiven her?” “He did better, he forgot her.” “Did she go to the bad?” sympathetically inquired Marden. “On the contrary. She married well--a professional man of some sort.” He smiled with good-humored malice. “And is she--is she--right now? I mean is she happy?” “She will be happy always, a selfish little soul. You mean is her present husband happy?” “Yes.” Marden leaned back nonchalantly and his hands, lean-fingered, traversed the corner of the table. To Serle the air became as dense as a vapor-bath. He continued, mercilessly: “Of course he is happy--her husband. Why shouldn’t he be? He doesn’t know.” “Doesn’t know what? Really, you set me on edge,” exclaimed Marden. He tried to smile, but his upper lip lifted, displaying white eye-teeth. Vincent lighted a fresh cigar. His arm did not tremble now. Then, swallowing the last of his cold coffee, he continued: “Her husband doesn’t dream the truth of her life in New York and Paris. She is, as I said, very pretty and can pull the wool over any man’s eyes. She is so interesting, so poetic, you know. She plays that little trick of the abused wife with the artistic temperament; plays it off on all the men she meets, on my friends----” “Your friends?” “My friends know her as a capricious vixen, masquerading as a delicate oversoul. I knew her once.” (Serle was cool; he had himself well in hand.) “And she always wins and still plays the game. At this moment she is probably fooling her husband, taking tea with some soft-head. She gets her wealthy male friends----” “How does she get them? Tell me.” Marden’s voice was subdued. “Does she say to her husband that she must secure orders for miniatures by dining with rich fellows? Doesn’t she----” “Really, my dear sir, I don’t know everything about this clever lady’s method. You seem quite taken with her story. It is, I pride myself, more exciting than your narrative of the artistic temperament.” Vincent’s intonations were markedly sarcastic. The older man’s face was afire. “Who the devil----” Benedict came to the table and placatingly asked: “Is this Mr. Marden?” “I’m Mr. Marden. What do you want?” “Madame, your wife, has just arrived. She is in the large salon with a gentleman, and she desires me to ask you to join her.” The men arose. “It was quite a pleasant afternoon, was it not?” In his most charming manner Serle put out his hand and Marden took it, grudgingly, his shrewd face surly, his little eyes suspiciously fastened on the smiling countenance of his companion. Then he followed the obsequious garçon, and Serle went into the street, first looking after the pair. He discerned Marden at a table on the Fifth Avenue side; with him was a fresh-colored, graceful woman, in elaborate afternoon toilette; a big, overdressed man sat beside her. Once in a taxi Vincent Serle gave the order to cross over to Madison Avenue.