Steve was silent. It was not only futile to argue--it was nerve-racking. Besides, he had found someone else with whom argument was a rare joy and a personal gain--Mary Faithful. At frequent intervals he had won a welcome at the doorway of the little apartment. He almost wished that Beatrice would find it out and row about it, leaving him in peace. He had not yet assumed unselfish views as to the matter. He was no longer in love with his wife but he was not yet in love with Mary. Instead he was passing through that interlude, whose brevity has made the world doubt its existence, known as platonic friendship. Platonic friendship does exist but it is like tropical twilight--the one whirlwind second in which brilliant sunshine and blue skies dip down and the stars and the moon dash up--and then the trick is done! But like the thief who audaciously walks by the house of his victim, Steve was never accused of anything worse than using his leisure time to frequent those low restaurants where they serve everything on a two-inch-thick platter. Which, he had retorted, was a relief from eating turtle steak off green-glass dinner plates. The first wedding anniversary was a rather disappointing affair since Beatrice had to remodel her wedding gown in order to wear it. That fact alone was distressing. And at the eleventh hour Steve was called out of town, which left Beatrice in the hands of her angel-duck brigade, who all felt it their duty to paint Steve in terms of reproach. "Now Steve felt just as badly about going as you do to have him away," her father said by way of clumsy consolation. "And he bought you a mighty handsome gift." "But I have one quite as lovely," Beatrice objected. "It was unpardonable of him to go, even if there was a strike and a fire. Let the police arrest everybody." She laid aside the gift, a glittering head-dress in the form of platinum Mercury wings set with diamonds, fitting close to the head and giving a decided Brunnhilde effect. "I hate duplicates; I always want something different and novel." "It's a good thing I gave you a check," said her father. "Yes, because Gay can always find me something"--brightening. "And tell me, how is the salon fresco coming on?" Her father held up his hands in protest. "Ask something easy. A mob of workmen and sleek gentlemen that tiptoe about like undertakers' assistants--that's all I know. But not one of them touches my room!" "All right, papa." She kissed him prettily. "And as I'm dead for sleep and aunty is snoring in her chair, suppose you wake her up and run along?" Summoning Aunt Belle, who was approaching the Mrs. Skewton stage of wanting a continuous rose-curtain effect, Beatrice stood at the window with unusual affection to wave the last of her guests a good-bye.