"Such a delightful little tea-pot would make any tea delicious, I am sure," murmured Mrs. Penfield, and the conversation rested while a noiseless menial entered, put wood upon the fire, and illuminated an electric bulb within an opalescent shell. An odor of cut flowers floated in the air and an exotic whiff of muffin. Mrs. Fessenden, when she had made the tea, sank back once more among the cushions and stretched her small feet to the blaze. "I am not at home, Pierre," she announced. "Perfectly, Madame," replied the menial, as though the absence were self-evident. Mrs. Penfield mused and sipped. "Some women are so inconsiderate when they are old," she said remindingly. "And so are most men when they are young," rejoined the lady of the cushions, "and Jack, though nice in many ways, is no exception. When I ask him to help by having unexpected men who must be fed to luncheon at the club, he says champagne at midday gives him apoplexy. And so we have to invite an unknown person to our very nicest dinner." "What unknown person?" inquired Mrs. Penfield, and Clara sighed. "A Mr. Hopworthy," she replied. "Fancy, if you can, a man named Hopworthy." Mrs. Penfield tried and failed. "What is he like?" she asked. "I haven't an idea. He called here yesterday at three o'clock--fancy a man who calls at three o'clock! and Jack insisted on inviting him for to-morrow night--and I had to give so much thought to to-morrow night!" "Of course he is coming," put in Mrs. Penfield; "such people never send regrets." "Or acceptances either, it would seem," returned her friend; "the wretch has not so much as answered, and soon it will be too late to get even an emergency girl." "Oh, one can always scare up a girl," the other said consolingly. Pierre entered with a little silver tray. "A note, if Madame pleases," he announced. Perhaps had Madame pleased a pineapple or a guinea-pig might have been forthcoming. When he had retired, Madame tore open the envelope. A flush of pleasure made her still more charming. "Hopworthy has been seriously injured!" she cried almost in exultation. "And how much anxiety you have had for nothing, dear!" said Mrs. Penfield, rising. "So often things turn out much better than we dare to hope. What does he say?" "Oh, only this; he writes abominably," and Clara read: DEAR MRS. FESSENDEN: I assure you, nothing less than a serious injury could prevent my availing myself of your charming invitation for Wednesday evening.... "Oh, Maude, you can't think what a relief this is!" "But----" began Mrs. Penfield and paused, while Clara, folding the note, tore it deliberately in twain. "I don't believe he has been seriously hurt at all," she said on second thought. "He simply did not want to come. Fancy a man who invents such an excuse!" "But----" began Mrs. Penfield once more, when Mrs. Fessenden interposed.