Mrs. Amos Parsons laid down her evening newspaper and stared at her own reflection in the upright, silver-framed mirror standing on the table by her side. So absorbing were her thoughts that she did not observe a velvet-footed servant remove the tea tray and carry off the soiled cups and saucers. The French clock on the high mantel of the drawing room had ticked away fully ten minutes before she stirred. With an indolent gesture of her hands, eminently characteristic, she dropped them in her lap and let her body relax against the tufted chair back. Her mirror told her that she needed rest; the deep shadows under her eyes and her unusual pallor both emphasized the same story. She was very, very weary. "Beg pardon, Madam." The velvet-footed butler was back in the room again, silver salver in hand. "A gentleman to see you." Mrs. Parsons picked up the small visiting card and adjusting her lorgnette, inspected the engraved lettering it bore. MR. BENJAMIN POTTER Cosmos Club "Where is Mr. Potter?" she asked. "In the reception room downstairs, madam. He said he was in a great hurry, Madam," as she remained silent. "He asked particularly to see you." "Very well; show him up. Wait--" as the servant started for the doorway. "Bring Mr. Potter upstairs in the lift." "Very good, Madam," and, a second later, Mrs. Parsons was alone in her drawing room. Leaning forward, she looked about the beautifully furnished room, then, convinced that she was its only occupant, she opened her vanity case and selecting a lip-stick, applied it, and added a touch of rouge. Lastly a powder-puff removed all outward traces of restless hours and weary waiting. She had just time to slip the puff and lip-stick inside her vanity box before the porti�res parted and Ben Potter hastened into the room. He stopped his rapid stride on catching sight of her and advanced more leisurely. "Good evening, Cecilia," he said, and paused in front of her. She appeared not to see his half-extended hand, as she laid down her cigarette. "Ah, Ben," she remarked dryly. "I see that you still believe in the efficacy of a bribe." "If it is big enough," composedly. "Your servant said you had denied yourself to callers so--_voil� tout_." "And why this desire to see me?" Potter did not reply at once; instead, he scrutinized her intently. She was well worth a second glance. Her type of face belonged to the Eighteenth Century, and as she sat in her high-backed chair, her prematurely grey hair, artistically arranged, in pretty contrast to her delicately arched eyebrows, she resembled a French marquise of the court of Louis XIV. She bore Potter's penetrating gaze with undisturbed composure. He was the first to shift his glance. "Suppose I take a chair and we talk things over," he suggested. "You are not very cordial-to-night."