The fact that he would not take off his top-coat gave each minute of the time that he did stay an added value. That he would not smoke somehow increased the fragrance about him of a fine cigar. That he gave her choice of chairs for him the preference lent companionableness to his manner of pulling up directly before her. “The future has in it lots and lots of trouble that hasn’t been used yet,” he prefaced, suddenly grave, “and don’t think that you, lovely little lady, are going to get all of it. There are other non-union workers besides yourself.” “Others?” He evaded the question direct. Trouble was the text of his small address--trouble ahead of a kind she had not known. She must prepare her mind for it; must gather her resources against an attack. And another would be protected in the protectorate of herself, one who deserved justification quite as much as she. Meeting the silent, fluent appeal of her eyes, he set aside hyperbole; before her placed facts, as if on the salver of his outspread hands. Catherine Cabot was an edition of womankind which Dolores doubtless had found hard to read. Velvet-bound was she, gilt-edged, artfully illustrated. The most astute of worldlings might remain unenlightened for many chapters as to the plot of her. Spite, it would seem, was her motivation--spite toward a husband who had depreciated what she was by a deliberate and stubborn over-valuation. Long she had waited and watched to prove the plot of him as bad as her own. Quite recently she had refused a separation because she wished, not only a divorce, but a discredited husband and a huge, decreed alimony, rather than a collusive settlement. Her engagement of Dolores, her pseudo-kindnesses, her pretended dependence upon the girl in her recent trip South--a trip that had taken her no farther than Philadelphia and been followed by a secret return to a mid-town hotel--were calculated steps toward this end. To-day she had served upon her husband the complaint in a suit for absolute divorce. Dolores Trent, grief now to one woman as to many men, she had named as co-respondent. The dread announcement was made. Forgetting the hurry on account of which he had refused to smoke, Holt now busied himself producing a cigar, clipping it and lighting it. Through smoke-clouds he looked across at the notorious girl whom he had whip-lashed with news of fresh notoriety. Seeing that her lips moved, he leaned forward to catch her words. “Maybe she was not so bad as---- The idea was d’Elie’s. I mustn’t forget that. _He_ suggested that the father of _l’enfant terrible_ might find me congenial--not she. ‘Enough, my clever Henri. I understand.’ I remember distinctly what she said.” In the midst of her shared memories, she became conscious of the quality of the lawyer’s regard. Her eyes lifted to his. “You believe that I----”