“I’ll not risk passing that window,” he muttered. “It was a mean trick, but it served the meddling fool right. I wonder which one of us lied the more? And I never saw Amy look so bewitching!” III GRINDSTONES “Yet each man kills the thing he loves, By each let this be heard; Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word. The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword.” --_Oscar Wilde._ It was nearly nine o’clock in the evening when the young ladies entered the fashionable boarding-house drawing-room. Madame Recamier’s, on the upper West Side, was large enough to defy the heated spell; yet the group seemed languid on this tepid night in June, fluttered fans and were not disposed to chatter. No one had called. Miss Anstruther, a brilliant brunette, cried out: “Oh, my kingdom for a man!” Mild laughter was heard. The girl went to the grand piano and said: “What shall it be?” “No Chopin,” exclaimed Miss Beeslay. “Do play a Chopin nocturne. Why, it’s the very night for nocturnes. There’s thunder in the air,” protested Miss Pickett. “Listen to Anne. Isn’t she poetic--” By this time the young women were quite animated. Tea served, Madame Recamier sent down word by the black page to ask Miss Anstruther for a little music. The dark girl pouted, yawned, and finally began the nocturne in F minor. Before she had played two bars the door-bell rang, and its echoes were not stilled before a silvery gong sounded somewhere in the rear. The drawing-room was instantly deserted. Presently the page brought in two young men, both in evening dress. “We should like to see Miss Anstruther and Miss Pickett,” said the delicate-looking fellow. “Say that Mr. Harold and a friend are here.” The page departed. Mr. Harold and his companion paced the long apartment in a curious mood. “Tea! They don’t drink tea, do they?” asked the other man, a tall blond, who wore his hair like a pianist. “I’m afraid that’s all we’ll get, Alfred; unless Madame Recamier comes down-stairs or else is magnetized by your playing. She keeps a mighty particular boarding-house.” “For God’s sake, Ned, don’t ask me to touch a piano. I’ve only come with you because you’ve raved about this dark girl and her playing. There they are!” Two came in; introductions followed, and the conversation soon became lively. “We drink tea,” said Anne Pickett, “because Madame Recamier believes it is good for the complexion.”