By way of the glass, Catherine smiled at her, the short upper lip which was a piquant flaw in otherwise perfect features lifting over her gleaming, mouselike teeth. “Oh, Dr. Shayle has remarkable powers! I discovered him, you know. No wonder he admires me and feels--well----” For once Dolores interrupted. She did not wish to be told first-hand of the likable young osteopath’s devotion, concerning which she had heard considerable gossip from the servants. She felt that it would not be just loyal to Dr. Shayle. Although fearful for her temerity, she changed the subject. “That day you engaged me, the Marquis d’Elie spoke of other needs of your household in which I might help. You have been very kind to me and I want to do all I can in return. Won’t you tell me what they are--the other needs?” Relieved that her beautiful employer showed no resentment, she did not try to analyze the confused look turned into the mirror. “The need the marquis meant----” Catherine spoke readily enough after the moment’s pause--“is mine for someone congenial to talk with in this great barn of a house--someone refined, you know, with a mind more the quality of my own. That’s all, really, just someone to lift the heavy moments. D’Elie feels a deep sympathy for me.” So pathetic did she sound and look that Dolores, too, felt sympathetic. That the enviable Mrs. Cabot might have a secret sorrow had not occurred to her. This time she did not check the tendency toward confidence; waited rather in silence, lest she seem inquisitive, for whatsoever might be entrusted to her. But before Catherine could continue, someone entered the boudoir that opened off the dressing room. It was the Marquis d’Elie. That was the early afternoon when he, like the oft-mentioned “angel” of the old saw, startled them both by an unannounced appearance. Dolores was sitting out of his line of vision, but she could see him plainly in the pier glass. She rose, outraged at the Frenchman’s presumption with the wife of John Cabot; turned toward Catherine; waited for her to reprimand him as he deserved. Catherine, who had been in the act of tying a ribbon at her breast, stiffened as if turned to the marble she looked and stared into the glass at the reflection of the smiling alien. A hurried glance she spared for the confections of silk crepe and lace in the open drawer, then bit her lip. When at last she spoke, her voice was one of utter exasperation. “And me in a cotton chemise!” “But lovely--ah--as a lily of _la belle France_!” the Marquis enthused. “I have slip’ up for that small talk of confidence about the amount of the dot, _mon ange_. I feel distress that you must sue for so much. But the responsibility is on me to assure that my queen have those comfort to which----”