A stately woman with a gentle face came in, behind her a little dapper man. She kissed Cornelia. Seeing Cornelia she stood on the threshold of some passionate understanding. But her husband broke the warming silence. He ran about the room and chattered. He was very gay. Cornelia smiled wanly at him. It was Sylvain Purze, maker of fashionable portraits: and his wife, maker of Sylvain Purze. They sat, the two women sheathed themselves up, so the little man should not be hurt with any truths. Mrs. Purze was a woman bathed in a sweet melancholy. Her fine features were a little vague under the dawn of her gold hair. “What a jolly place you have here, you know, Miss Rennard!” exclaimed Mr. Purze. “How I envy you your simplicity. Ah, me!” He sighed, thinking with satisfaction of his luxurious studio on Gramercy Park. “When you’re married----” he intimated treacherously. But his wife did not mind. She knew Cornelia’s opinion of her husband’s talk. She knew her own. The trouble was precisely that her husband had never given her the excuse to leave him. Cornelia’s mind was a twilight swept clear of the mists of the sun. Each nerve stood out alone, and took its toll of its surroundings. The bell jangled again. A young girl came in, diffident, spring-like; before a tall dark man with head thrust stiffly back, so that he seemed to be leaning in the direction contrary to his coming. Cornelia greeted her with real pleasure. Cornelia’s sudden brightness was like a pitiful flower budding above strewn ashes. “Helen! I am so glad you thought of coming. And this is Doctor Westerling?” She shook his hand silently. “I have heard of you.” She was not interested really. She introduced them. “Miss Helen Daindrie....” She had expected the Purzes only. No one else would come. The little party caught from the hostess the sense of its completion. It threw out its arms and wove a comfortable net about itself. It settled down. The talk ran easy and subdued: a sluggish circulation within this temporary creature. Mr. Purze was suave with words. His wife had a poise that cradled all the room and gave the creature rest. Dr. Westerling was taciturn: but he was intense in listening. He was a pleasure to Mr. Purze. And Helen Daindrie sat there sweetly, neither talkative nor silent. Cornelia had no need to exert herself. The party would be an easy one. It would live and come to a good end. She found herself looking more and more at Miss Daindrie, drawn to her by a fascination bitter-sweet. She wondered why. She asked her senses. They were clear in their reports like bells.