Lydia snatched off her hat, rumpled her hair with both hands as Evans began to undo her blouse. She unfastened the cuff, and then looked up with pale startled eyes. "Your bracelet, miss?" "Bracelet?" For a second Lydia had really forgotten it. "The little diamond bracelet. You were wearing it this afternoon." Something panic-stricken and excited in the girl's tone annoyed Lydia. "I must have dropped it," she said. The maid gave a little cry as if she herself had suffered a loss. "Oh, to lose a valuable bracelet like that!" "If I don't mind I don't see why you should, Evans." Evans began unhooking her skirt in silence. Twenty minutes later she was being driven rapidly toward the Piers'. These minutes were among the most contemplative of her life, shut in for a few seconds alone without possibility of interruption. Now as she leaned back she thought how lonely her life was--always facing criticism alone. Was she a bully, as Ilseboro had said? Perhaps she was hard. But then how could you get things done if you were soft? There was Benny. Benny, with many excellent abilities, was soft, and look where she was--a paid companion at fifty-five. Lydia suspected that ten years before her father had wanted to marry Benny, and Benny had refused. Lydia thought she knew why--because Benny thought old Joe Thorne a vulgar man whom she didn't love. Very high-minded, of course, and yet wasn't there a sort of weakness in not taking your chance and putting through a thing like that? Wouldn't Benny be more a person from every point of view if she had decided to marry the old man for his money? If she had she'd have been his widow now, and Lydia a dependent step-daughter. How she would have hated that! The Piers had built a perfect French chateau, and had been successful in changing the scrubby woods into gardens and terraces and groves. Lydia stepped out of the car and paused on the wide marble steps, wrapping her cloak about her with straight arms, as an Indian wraps his blanket about him. She turned her head slightly at her chauffeur's inquiry as to the hour of her return. "Oh," she said, "eight--ten--bridge. Come back at eleven." The mirrors in the Piers' dressing room were flattering as she dropped her cloak with one swift motion into the hands of the waiting servant and saw a reflection of her slim gold-and-green figure with the emerald band across her forehead. She saw at a glance on entering the drawing-room that it wasn't a very good party--only eight, and nothing much in the line of bridge players. She listened temperately to Fanny Piers' explanation that four people had given out since six o'clock. She nodded, admitting the excuse and reserving the opinion that if the Piers gave better parties people wouldn't chuck them so often.