“We have been given so much more than compliments, Mr. Brownley,” said Margaret Duffield, “that they seem a little tasteless after stronger food.” “Not tasteless to most of us. Perhaps to a few, like Margaret. But most of us, men and women, will like them as long as we have that passion for appearing to ourselves as we would like to be and not as we are.” Over recovered ease of manner, Gage smiled at Helen. She had taken that up neatly. She had penetration, not a doubt of it. Why did she try then to subordinate herself to these other women, people like this Duffield girl, these arrogant spinsters? He greeted his hostess, who came from the library, where a group of people were already settled about the card tables. “Will you make a fourth with the Stantons and Emily Haight, please, Gage? You like a good game and Emily can furnish it.” Mrs. Brownley was a tall, elaborately marcelled woman of about fifty. Handsome, people said, as they do say it of a woman who commands their eyes even when the sex attraction has gone. She had the ease of a woman whose social position is of long standing, the graciousness of one who has nothing to gain and the slight aggressiveness of one who has much to bestow. Gage liked her. He remembered distinctly the time of her reign as one of the “younger matrons”--he had been a boy home from college when, at thirty-five, Mrs. Brownley, successfully the mother of two children, was dominating the gayety of the city’s social life. Just as now--her hair gray and marcelled, and her dancing vivacity cleverly changed into an eagerness of interest in “welfare work” or “civic activity”--she released energies more in keeping with her age. “I’ll go anywhere you want me to,” he said, “I’ll play checkers or casino. I’ll do anything--except talk to feminist females.” “Well, Emily’s surely no feminist--go along then--” It was a very small party, a dinner of ten to which the Flandons had not been able to come because of a late afternoon meeting at Gage’s office. So he and Helen had come along later, informally, to meet the guest of honor, now sitting with Helen on a divan, out of the range of the card players. “Have you begun operations yet?” Helen was asking. “Oh, no. It’s a very vague job I have and you mustn’t expect too much. I am not supposed to interfere with any local activities--just lend a hand in getting new women interested, speaking a bit, that sort of thing, rousing up women like you who ought to be something more than agreeable dilettantes.” “If I’m agreeable--” began Helen. “I won’t be put off. You write that nonsense in your letters. Why aren’t you interested in all this?” “I truly am. Very noticeably. I’m secretary to this and treasurer to that--all the women’s things in town. On boards of directors--no end.” “And you care about them as much as your tone shows. Are you submerged in your husband then?”