"But, Maud," Dita hesitated, "I really think we should refuse some one else and take her. She is an old friend." "Old fiddlesticks!" cried Maud impatiently. "Maud! What is the matter with you? A touch of spring fever? Really, I think we must consider her." "But if I ask you not, Dita"--there were almost tears in Maud's voice. "But why should you ask me not? This is too bewildering." "Ah, well," Maud spoke now with the calmness of despair, "since you force me to tell you, I ask you not because Mrs. Wilstead has been constantly with Mr. Hepworth in the West this winter, and the current gossip is that he is only waiting for a divorce to be arranged between you and himself, to marry her." There was silence for a moment on Dita's part. Her eyes were downcast, mechanically she sorted the letters in her hand. "Then what of the talk about Fuschia Fleming and himself?" "Oh, they say that she took a back seat when Alice Wilstead appeared on the scene. But really, Dita, this move on Alice's part makes me furious. The idea of her being guilty of such wretchedly bad taste. I have always liked her, been really fond of her, in fact, but this crass exhibition of bad breeding disgusts me. I dare say that she doesn't care so long as she gets results; that is, the benefit of your taste and skill to enhance her waning beauty; but look at the position it is going to place you in, Dita. For number one to design the trousseau for number two is really too absurd. It simply goes beyond all belief. Dita, you must, indeed you must, write her the curtest, coldest of polite notes and tell her that we are entirely too busy to consider her." "Very well. I'll humor you so far," returned Perdita. "What is it?" turning to a maid who entered with a visiting card. "Ah, Eugene! I asked him to come this morning. I particularly wanted to see him and I don't want you present. There, don't get that stony look of despair on your face, Maudie; think how good I have been all winter, only seeing Eugene once in a blue moon, and then in your company." "But I want you to keep on being good," pleaded Maud; "especially now." "I am gooder than you can possibly imagine," laughed Perdita, "but, all the same, I do not wish you tagging about this morning." She smiled teasingly at her puzzled business partner as she left the room. She went down to meet Eugene in the same room at the same hour she had talked with her husband the day before. But Eugene was not one to endure for one moment a situation dominated by the shadowy third person. No woman should gaze at him with the remembrance of yesterday in her eyes, the smile of wistful reminiscence on her lips. An hour with him must be a dazzling and kaleidoscopic episode. He would hold it in his hand, and at the bidding of his will, the moments, like bits of colored glass, should revolve and melt and mingle--rainbow arabesques on the background of Time.