1 CLIVE stayed a few minutes after the others to give them some news. Phyllis, it seemed, was desperately discontented with the process of learning to be a teacher. And he had been talking with Howard Morgan about her—Howard Morgan had spent a summer in Woods Point, and remembered her as “the pretty girl who used to drive a taxi”—and he had become interested in her problem to the extent of offering her a position as his secretary (“if she can type manuscripts, and look up things in books”—he was at work now on a grandiose historical poem). That, Clive had remarked, seemed to solve the problem of coming to Chicago for her—if she accepted it. He wanted to know what they thought about it. Rose-Ann had said, a little wearily, that that did seem to solve the problem for her. “So you’re in favour of it?” Clive had asked, insistently. Rose-Ann had shrugged her shoulders. “It’s not for me to decide!” she said, and so Clive, thanking her in an ironical voice, had gone away. 2 And as soon as he had gone Felix began—or thought he began—to understand what it was all about.... And yet, the fancy was so preposterous! “I wonder,” he said cautiously, “why Clive made such a fuss about that offer of Howard Morgan’s?” “Well,” said Rose-Ann. “Leave the door open a moment to let the smoke out....” “What kind of reputation has Howard Morgan, with—with regard to girls?” he asked point-blank. “Oh,” said Rose-Ann, “the usual reputation of handsome poets, old and young. Why?” “Then,” said Felix, “—then that was what Clive was thinking about!” “I suppose so,” said Rose-Ann. “I think the room’s aired out now. You can close the door.” “But,” said Felix, “It’s monstrous!” “What—oh, you’re still talking about Phyllis? But why be angry at _me_ about it?” “I’m not angry at you, Rose-Ann; I’m disgusted with Clive for thinking of turning her over to that old scoundrel!... You don’t seem to care?” “Must everybody in the world be sorry for poor Phyllis, and anxious about poor Phyllis, and worrying about poor Phyllis?” Rose-Ann demanded in a tone of exasperation. “I’m tired of her problems, myself. Can’t she decide what she wants to do without so much masculine assistance? After all, all I said was that it wasn’t my affair. Let her decide for herself.... And shut the door, please—it’s getting chilly....” Felix shut the door. “Well, this is over, anyway!” said Rose-Ann, walking back behind the screen, and kicking off her pumps. Felix followed her. “What’s over?” “This party,” she said, letting down her hair. “A lot of cleaning tomorrow, and then—never again.... Felix, I don’t want you to be a perfect host, after all. You don’t have to be anything you don’t want to be.” “But about Phyllis,” he said. “Surely you aren’t cold-bloodedly considering her becoming the mistress of that old—”