"The birds were up long ago," Leila perched herself on an old English love-seat. "We're to have lunch before we go to Fort Myer, and it is almost one now." Lilah yawned, "Is it?" and went on combing her hair with the air of one who has hours before her. She wore a silken negligee of flamingo red which matched her surroundings, for this room was as flaming as the other was subdued. Yet the effect was not that of crude color; it was, rather, that of color intensified deliberately to produce a contrast. Delilah's bedroom was high noon under a blazing sun, the sitting-room was midnight under the stars. With her black hair at last twisted into wonderful coils, Delilah surveyed her face reflectively in the mirror, and having decided that she needed no further aid from the small jars on her dressing table, she turned to her friend. "What shall I wear, Leila?" "If I told you," was the calm response, "you wouldn't wear it." Delilah laughed. "No, I wouldn't. I simply have to think such things out for myself. But I meant what kind of clothes--dress up or motor things?" "Porter will take us out in his car. You'll need your heavy coat, and something good-looking underneath, for lunch, you know." "Is Mary Ballard going?" "Of course. We shouldn't get Porter's car if she weren't." "Mary wasn't with us the day we had tea with him in the Park." "No, but she was asked. Porter never leaves her out." "Are they engaged?" "No, Mary won't be." "She'll never get a better chance," Delilah reflected. "She isn't pretty, and she's rather old style." Leila blazed. "She's beautiful----" "To you, duckie, because you love her. But the average man wouldn't call Mary Ballard beautiful." "I don't care--the un-average one would. And Mary Ballard wouldn't look at an ordinary man." "No man is ordinary when he is in love." "Oh, with you," Leila's tone was scornful, "love's just a game." Lilah rose, crossed the room with swift steps, and kissed her. "Don't let me ruffle your plumage, Jenny Wren," she said; "I'm a screaming peacock this morning." "What's the matter?" "I'm not the perfect success I planned to be. Oh, I can see it. I've been here for three months, and people stare at me, but they don't call on me--not the ones I want to know. And it's because I am too--emphasized. In New York you have to be emphatic to be anything at all. Otherwise you are lost in the crowd. That's why Fifth Avenue is full of people in startling clothes. In the mob you won't be singled out simply for your pretty face--there are too many pretty faces; so it is the woman who strikes some high note of conspicuousness who attracts attention. But you're like a flock of cooing doves, you Washington girls. You're as natural and frank and unaffected as a--a covey of partridges. I believe I am almost jealous of your Mary Ballard this morning." "Not because of Porter?"