The others seemed suddenly conscious that it was midnight--the time when only extreme youth had a right to be enjoying itself. They took upon themselves the preliminary airs of departure. But Helen, separating herself from the group, went down the room to the young people. They had settled into chairs and began to rise a little awkwardly but she did not let them, sitting down herself on the arm of Allison’s chair and bending to talk to them all. They burst into gales of laughter at something she said. Gage and Jerrold watched her from the other end of the room. It was wonderful, thought Gage, how even beside those young faces, her beauty stood out as more brilliant. How her hair shone under those soft lights! How golden, mellow, she was in every gesture! Jerrold, in need of some one to whom to comment, isolated Margaret. “Watch your amazing friend,” he said, “those children made us feel old and stiff muscled. See how she is showing us that they are raw and full of angles.” “Is it important?” asked Margaret. “I suppose not. Except that it is a time when youth seems to be pretty securely on the throne of things. And I like to see it get a jolt.” III All the way home, Gage had wanted to say something to his wife, something in appreciation of her beauty, something to still somehow the desire to express his love. As they stood for a moment in their hallway he sought for but could not find the words. There was in him a conflicting, a very definite enmity to her consciousness of her powers. He did not want to increase it. It seemed to him that to have her know her charm meant that she would lose it. He had seen her lose it so. When he felt that she was deliberate-- “You were very charming to-night, dearest.” “The first duty of a woman,” she laughed, “is to be charming, if she can.” There it was. She had set him back. He felt it cruelly. Why hadn’t she simply turned and thanked him, given him the caress he was waiting for? Why had she made it all what he suspected? She had planned every move. Probably planning now--he became stubborn, thwarted, angry. “I didn’t care much for your friend,” he said, lighting his cigarette. “No? But you won’t mind my having her here.” “Well, as you know, I’d much prefer not. I don’t think that sort of woman a healthy influence.” “And yet you know, Gage, I might be getting a little tired of merely healthy influences. The change might set me up.” She too was strangely angry. She had been thrilled all evening by the thought of this home-coming. She had been saving up emotions to throw her into Gage’s arms. She wanted to feel--to tell him she loved him. He was making it impossible. They stood there, longing for each other, yet on guard mentally, afraid of the other’s thrust, the other’s mockery.