“Oh, George is not as dismal as you think. If Bertha did worry him he would be quite different. Or if she’d leave him alone, and let him arrange his life as he pleases. But she doesn’t dare lose her hold of him on account of the money, and so when HE isn’t jealous she pretends to be.” Miss Bart went on writing in silence, and her hostess sat following her train of thought with frowning intensity. “Do you know,” she exclaimed after a long pause, “I believe I’ll call up Lawrence on the telephone and tell him he simply MUST come?” “Oh, don’t,” said Lily, with a quick suffusion of colour. The blush surprised her almost as much as it did her hostess, who, though not commonly observant of facial changes, sat staring at her with puzzled eyes. “Good gracious, Lily, how handsome you are! Why? Do you dislike him so much?” “Not at all; I like him. But if you are actuated by the benevolent intention of protecting me from Bertha—I don’t think I need your protection.” Mrs. Trenor sat up with an exclamation. “Lily!——PERCY? Do you mean to say you’ve actually done it?” Miss Bart smiled. “I only mean to say that Mr. Gryce and I are getting to be very good friends.” “H’m—I see.” Mrs. Trenor fixed a rapt eye upon her. “You know they say he has eight hundred thousand a year—and spends nothing, except on some rubbishy old books. And his mother has heart-disease and will leave him a lot more. OH, LILY, DO GO SLOWLY,” her friend adjured her. Miss Bart continued to smile without annoyance. “I shouldn’t, for instance,” she remarked, “be in any haste to tell him that he had a lot of rubbishy old books.” “No, of course not; I know you’re wonderful about getting up people’s subjects. But he’s horribly shy, and easily shocked, and—and——” “Why don’t you say it, Judy? I have the reputation of being on the hunt for a rich husband?” “Oh, I don’t mean that; he wouldn’t believe it of you—at first,” said Mrs. Trenor, with candid shrewdness. “But you know things are rather lively here at times—I must give Jack and Gus a hint—and if he thought you were what his mother would call fast—oh, well, you know what I mean. Don’t wear your scarlet CREPE-DE-CHINE for dinner, and don’t smoke if you can help it, Lily dear!” Lily pushed aside her finished work with a dry smile. “You’re very kind, Judy: I’ll lock up my cigarettes and wear that last year’s dress you sent me this morning. And if you are really interested in my career, perhaps you’ll be kind enough not to ask me to play bridge again this evening.” “Bridge? Does he mind bridge, too? Oh, Lily, what an awful life you’ll lead! But of course I won’t—why didn’t you give me a hint last night? There’s nothing I wouldn’t do, you poor duck, to see you happy!” And Mrs. Trenor, glowing with her sex’s eagerness to smooth the course of true love, enveloped Lily in a long embrace. “You’re quite sure,” she added solicitously, as the latter extricated herself, “that you wouldn’t like me to telephone for Lawrence Selden?”