"But--I insist--" stammered the greatly embarrassed Count, "allow me, madame, let me say, I call on you all--all----" "Nothing of the sort!" declared Miss Lucy; "you came, Count, to play bridge with us. Our opponents behaved so rudely and played so badly it was impossible for us to continue the game. Nor can we enjoy music in this inharmonious atmosphere. Let us stroll in the conservatory, you and I." She rose, trailing her heavy silks and flashing her sparkling jewels, and the Count, a little hesitatingly, followed her. They crossed the great hall, and, going through a reception room and the delightful sun-parlor, came to the warm, heavily-scented conservatory. "Poor old Charlier!" said Haviland, as the pair disappeared; "he's in for it now! Do you suppose the palms and orchids will bring him up to the scratch? 'Nita, I'll bet you a box of gloves against a box of simple little cigarettes that he doesn't propose to the lady to-night?" "Done!" cried Miss Frayne, who was sparkling again, now that the dread presence was removed. "I doubt he can help himself. She has him at her mercy. And he's too good-mannered to disappoint her wish." "He'll propose," said Pauline, with an air of conviction. "He's a typical fortune-hunter, that man. Indeed, I am not sure he's a Count at all. Do you know, Mr. Illsley?" "I know almost nothing of the man, save that he's a guest of the Frothinghams. That's not entirely in his favor, I think." "Right you are!" agreed Haviland. "Those people are,--well, they're to be queried. But I say, Polly, if the two do hit it off, it's grinding poverty for us, eh?" "It may be a blessed relief, Gray. She'll give us something, of course, and send us away from here. I, for one, shouldn't be sorry to go. She is getting too impossible!" "She is!" put in Anita; "every day she pounds us worse! I'd like to kill her!" The fierce words and would-be menacing glance of the little blonde beauty were about as convincing as a kitten declaring himself a war lord, and even the stately Pauline smiled at the picture. "She ought to be killed," declared Haviland, "and I say this dispassionately. I wouldn't do it, because killing is not in my line, but the eternal fitness of things requires her removal to another sphere of usefulness. She makes life a burden to three perfectly good people, and some several servants. Not one would mourn her, and----" "Oh, stop, Gray!" cried Pauline; "don't talk in that strain! Don't listen to him, Mr. Illsley. He often says such things, but he doesn't mean them. Mr. Haviland loves to talk at random, to make a sensational hearing." "Nothing of the sort, Polly. I do mean it. Lucy Carrington is a misery dispenser, and such are not wanted in this nice little old world." "But perhaps," Pauline looked thoughtful, "the fault is in us. We don't like her, and so we see nothing good in what she does. Now, Carrington Loria adores her. She had a letter from him to-day----"