She asked abruptly: “Will you tell me why you are wearing that gown—powdered your hair?” Gita jumped as if Elsie had flung something at her more solid than words. “Good heavens! I had forgotten all about it.” The color flooded her face and she turned her head aside. “I had a fancy—a notion——If you don’t mind I think I’ll not explain.” Elsie made no reply and called on her imagination. But well as she believed she knew Gita she could think of nothing that may have possessed her to dress up as her great-great-grandmother with herself as sole audience. Merely a whim, no doubt. Heaven knew she was full of whims. Gita, pale once more, turned and looked at her. “You are very angry with me,” she said. “Wouldn’t you have shot a man yourself if you’d found him prowling about your house at midnight in pitch-dark?” “I don’t see how you could have helped knowing it was Eustace. Surely he must have spoken.” “Well, I didn’t and he didn’t, and that’s all there is to it.” Her eyes hardened. “You look at me as if you hated me.” Elsie shrugged her shoulders. “Eustace is a great man, and if he dies American literature will be the poorer.” “He may be a great writer, but he is not a great man. Some difference. I don’t know that I’d even call him a great writer. That helpless adjective has been so bandied about it’s a wonder there’s any meaning left in it. He’s brilliant, distinguished, subtle, penetrating, and a stylist, but no writer of fiction can be great without drama, and he has no sense of drama at all. There’s not a great moment in one of his books——” “Oh, for God’s sake don’t dissect the poor man’s books when he may be lying dead upstairs!” And then she added irresistibly: “_We_ think him great, and perhaps are better able to judge.” Gita laughed. “I know you think you are! Sophisticated Reputation Factory. Quite a going concern. Still—not for a moment am I assuming that Eustace Bylant couldn’t have got on by himself. He has indisputable talent and intellect. But not genius.” “He’s a great psychologist.” Gita’s lips twisted. “His psychology has a few holes in it. I’m not as incapable of judging as you think. And at least I think for myself.” This unseemly quarrel was interrupted by the entrance of Dr. Pelham. Elsie sprang to her feet. “Is he——” “All right for the present. But his shoulder is badly shattered. I’ve given him an opiate and he’ll sleep for several hours. I’ll be over in the morning and bring a second nurse.” Gita had risen also. “Come over to the dining-room,” she said. “I’ve told Topper to make coffee and sandwiches.” Then she saw that he was staring at her—that dress—her powdered hair—why on earth hadn’t she had her wits about her and changed before they came? “You’ll excuse me,” she muttered. “I’m terribly bowled over. Topper will look after you—I can’t thank you enough——” And she fairly ran out of the room and up the stair. They heard a door slam.