“Lord, we’re a queer set of friends! How we love one another!” “You’ve all of you been awfully good to me,” said the Baxter girl. But her gratitude was too general to be acceptable. Even I could have told her that. “Oh, we do our best for you,” said Mr. Flood. She looked at him from under her lashes. “Yes, and she’s thinking this minute what a nice little scene this would make for her new book—touched up, of course,” said the woman behind him. “Art—selection—Jimmy Whistler——” Mr. Flood was one indistinct murmur. “With herself her own heroine again, eh?” Miss Howe baited her. “I didn’t. I wasn’t.” “Better folk than you do it, child! Anita says so. Don’t they, Anita?” “Oh,” said Anita heavily, “I wish Madala Grey were here. I wish she hadn’t died. If she were here she wouldn’t—you’d never—she wouldn’t let you laugh at me.” Miss Howe looked at her intently. There was a quick little run of expression across her large handsome face, like a hand playing a scale. It showed, that easily moved, easily read face, surprise, interest, concern, and, in the end, the sentimental impulse of your kind fur-clad woman to the beggar on the curb. ‘Why! I believe she’s cold! I don’t like it! Give her tuppence, quick!’ She was out of her chair, overwhelming Anita, in one impetuous heave of drapery. “You’re right, Nita! We’re pigs! Something’s wrong with us. ’Pologize. You know we don’t mean it.” Anita endured her right-and-left kisses. “You do mean it,” was all she said. She was shrunk to such a small grey creature again. I thought to myself—‘Fire? It’s not even diamond-sparkle. She’s as dull as stone.’ Miss Howe was eagerly remorseful. “We don’t. I don’t know what’s got into us tonight. It’s the fog. There’s something evil about a fog. Distorting. It yellows over one’s soul.” “It isn’t only tonight,” said the Baxter girl, with her sidelong, ‘can-I-risk-it?’ look at them. “The fog’s been coming on for months.” “And you mean——?” The blonde lady never snubbed the Baxter girl. It struck me suddenly, as their eyes met, that there was the beginning of a likeness between them. The Baxter girl at fifty—with dyed hair——? But it was only an idea of mine. I’m always seeing imaginary likenesses. I remember that those Academy pictures of Kent Rehan’s always set me to work wondering—‘That woman with the face turned away—I’ve seen her somewhere—of whom does she remind me?—where have I seen her?’ And yet, of course, in those days I knew nothing of Madala Grey. But the Baxter girl was answering— “It—it’s cheek, I know, but it’s true. When I first came—” then, with a swift propitiatory glance at Anita—“when you first let me come—the Nights weren’t like this. You weren’t like this, any of you——” “Upon—my—word!” said Miss Howe with her benevolent chuckle. “Nita! Listen to the infant!” “Like what?” Mr. Flood moved uneasily. The Baxter girl turned to him enthusiastically. “Oh, I used to think you such wonderful people——” “Did you now?” Miss Howe teased her.