She laughed. “That’s not very serious, Mr. Clayton. No, I don’t suppose that sort of thing is at all good for one. But you New Yorkers do not make that a criterion of your actions, surely?” “Perhaps _we_ do not!” I answered gravely. “But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t?” she demanded, smiling. “There you go, trying to keep all the privileges for yourselves. I think I like New York and I want lots of privileges!” I laughed. “Do you expect to be here long?” I asked. “About a month, I think.” “Well, you ought to see about enough of New York in that time. And I hereby extend you the freedom of the city with all its privileges. But I hope you will extend me one in return?” At this moment her aunt bustled up to us. “Natalie, my dear, you must come and meet the Jordans. Such dear people and _so_ unusual. Two of my best friends, you know.” She turned to me, beaming. “You will excuse us, Mr. Clayton?” Miss Van Cleef rose gracefully to her feet. In spite of a little momentary trick of shyness now and then, she was clearly a young lady with a good deal of natural poise. She turned to me for an instant, before following her aunt. “And the boon you ask?” she inquired, laughing. “Just to see something of you while you are here,” answered I gravely. Again the lovely eyes met mine in surprise. I tried to make my glance express nothing more than a friendly interest, but it is possible that a little of my growing wonder and admiration showed for an instant. “Natalie!” her aunt called her a little impatiently. My companion colored adorably and dropped her eyes. “I—why, of course, if you—wish it,” she murmured. An instant later she had joined her aunt. But I stood still, conscious of quickening pulses. And for an instant, before I was drawn into the general conversation about me, I forgot my mission there and the work I had set myself to do and became enmeshed in a day-dream, full of vague thoughts and fancies, leading I knew not whither. But not for long. In the middle of a discussion on Freud, my hostess moved past me with a smile that held something of meaning in it, and I looked up to see her welcoming a tall woman, strikingly handsome, whose face I recognized at once. But I should not have recognized her if her face had not been engraved on my memory by the force of association with tragedy. For I remembered Mrs. Fawcette as an ultra-conservative, conventional woman—a woman who was socially powerful and knew it, and one whose speech and attire were as conservative as her views. And now! She wore a long flowing “art” gown of the most amazing shade of orange fading into lavender. She wore long green earrings, hanging nearly to her shoulder. Her chestnut hair, once so beautifully coiffured, now escaped in wisps from beneath her big, flopping hat, and from her head to her heels she was “of art, arty”!