Tinted spectres of village people she had known rose, slipped away, faded, vanished;--Mazie’s three uncouth sons, Si, Willis, and Buddy--all already unreal to her, as though she merely had heard of them;--Dr. Wand, Dr. Benson, Ed. Lister, always redolent of fertilizer;--the minister, “Rev. Stiles”;--and then, unbidden, into her mind’s vague picture stepped a trim, graceful, polite young man with agreeable voice and long, clever fingers always stained with nicotine or acid-- The girl sat up abruptly; cleared her eyes of tangled curls with a sudden sweep of her slim hand as though to brush away the vision. As she looked over her left shoulder at the mantle clock her telephone rang. She sprang up, suddenly aware that she had but a few minutes to dress and go to meet Frank Donnell at the apartment of Albert Smull. It was Annan on the wire. “Hello, dearest,” she said, stifling the yawn that had been threatening since she aroused herself from her torpor. “I thought you were to call me when you got home,” he said in a dismal voice that sounded rather hollow to her. “Forgive me, Barry dear. I was rather fagged and I just lay down on the sofa. And I nearly had a nightmare.... Are you well, darling?” “I’m seriously ill and----” “What!” she exclaimed. “Dying--to see you, Eris.” “You mustn’t joke that way; you startle me,” she said with a quick breath of relief. “Would you wear black for me?” “Please don’t make a jest of it----” “You sweet little thing,” he said, “will you dine at my place, or out, or shall I come----” “Darling! I’m sorry.” “You haven’t made an engagement, have you?” “But I have, dear.” “Where?” he asked impatiently. It was none of his business. But she said: “Mr. Smull asked me to dine with him and Frank Donnell. Are you going to be lonely, dear?” “Where are you dining?” he demanded impatiently. She did not resent it: “In Mr. Smull’s apartment.” “Do you think that’s the thing to do?” he asked sharply. “Darling! Isn’t it?” “Are you accustomed to dine with married men in apartments which they maintain outside their homes?” His anger and insolence merely astonished her: “Barry dear,” she said, “it is merely a business matter. He asked me to meet Frank there and discuss my next picture. I can’t understand why you seem offended----” “Do you think it’s agreeable for me to expect an evening with you, and suddenly discover that you have arranged to pass it with Albert Smull?” “I’m sorry.... I can’t very well help it----” “It’s perfectly rotten of you!” he retorted in a blaze of boyish temper. “Barry dear?” “What?” “You mustn’t talk that way to me.” “Then don’t deserve it----” “Barry!” “Yes.” There was a pause. He waited. Then her voice, rather low and quiet: