Again, as in the morning, Mary one by one drew out the other qualities that lay beneath Maisie’s girlish charm. She was spoiled, selfish, full of temper, vindictive--and also she was proud to the last degree, and she seemed inflexibly a Puritan in mind and impulses. It was upon the last two qualities, of pride and inflexible Puritanism, that Mary’s quick mind based her now swiftly maturing plan. Presently Mary, in her rôle of a member of the smarter New York set, brought her light, humorously cynical talk about to some of the men she knew--to rumors of their none too circumspect _amours_; and then, quite casually, she mentioned Jack Morton. “You know Jack Morton?” Maisie Jones asked. “I’ve met him--yes.” There was a quick flash of jealousy in the blue eyes. “I happen to know him, too,--a little. Is he--is he like those other men you spoke of?” “You mean in regard to women?” “Yes.” Mary appeared not to be aware that this topic had a personal interest for Maisie Jones. Also she had swiftly calculated how she must handle this particular business. If she told Maisie outright some scandal concerning Jack, Maisie in her pride might refuse to believe her, and the matter would end right there. Maisie had to be so led that she believed herself to be leading, and whatever she learned she must apparently find out for herself. “Miss Jones, these men are all alike,” Mary answered lightly, “and they say Jack Morton is the most alike of them all.” “But--but I’d heard that Jack Morton was very steady just now.” “That’s the little way men have.” Mary gave the soft, cynical laugh of the wise young woman of fashion. “The more that men have to hide, the more steady and proper do they try to appear.” “You mean that he is--that there is a woman--” Maisie Jones could get no further. “So they say. And I’m told he’s the same as engaged to a nice girl in Chicago--poor thing!” There was a brief silence. Mary discreetly avoided looking in Maisie’s direction. “Are you--are you certain about that other woman?” asked a strained voice. “I’ve seen him about with her several afternoons.” “Afternoons? I thought he was busy till five o’clock.” “That’s a man’s oldest pretense, being busy all day.” Again a brief silence; then again the strained voice, trying to be steady and indifferent: “What is she like?” “I tell you what,” said Mary casually, “if you really want to know, I think I can show her to you--with him. I’ve noticed them having tea together at the Biltmore several times recently. If you like we can go there for tea this afternoon--it will do us both good to get out--and in the big crowd there at tea-time we’ll never be noticed.” “All right,” said Maisie. “Then suppose you call for me at my apartment at four.”