This precious female was the mother of a whining little boy whose father was authenticated by due process of law. The law had not sufficed, however, to keep the gentleman faithful for long to the nuptial vows. After his disappearance from New York, his wife was left to support herself and to wreak vengeance where vengeance was not due. The first that Janet knew about the coming storm was when the dietitian took her aside and told her that the house had been divided into two camps: for and against Janet; or, as the anti-Janet crowd put it: for and against Morality. Two days before the nightmare, things had come to a head. In the absence of the manager, the anti-Janet faction had assembled under the chairmanship of the thin-edged agitator. This lady had opened the meeting with the bitter announcement that those present were liberal and fairminded, but that they had their children to think of. Their darling children! Mothers, _married_ mothers, mind you (and she, for her part, had consented to join the Susan B. Anthony House _only_ on the confident assumption that _all_ the mothers were as _regularly_ married as herself)—mothers, as such, could afford to take no chances! Unhappily, she was persuaded that in the other camp there were ladies who had more than _one good reason_ for standing by the manager. She surmised that some of these ladies were _unmarried mothers_! Scarcely mothers at all (if morals counted for anything), and certainly no better than they should be. After much nursing of self-righteousness, suitable resolutions were moved, and a deputation was appointed to present the facts to Mrs. R. H. L. Jerome; also to demand the discharge of Janet and the vindication of American morality. The great impeachment had occurred last night. Mrs. Jerome had motored into town, and both factions had turned out for the occasion in the large reception room on the ground floor. Mrs. Jerome had refused to start the proceedings until Janet was seated at her right hand. This settled, the thin-edged spokesman had made the formal charges. Then the fun had begun— At this point, a telephone bell jangled across Janet’s reflections. "Who is it?" she asked the switchboard girl. "Mr. Pryor." "Let him come up," said Janet eagerly. *III* As usual, Mark Pryor’s spare form was dressed from head to foot in materials of one color. But even Janet noticed that, for once, the inevitable stand-up collar, with its two prongs tilting its wearer’s chin upwards, had been replaced by a low-lying collar of creamiest silk. "Circles under the eyes!" he began severely. "What’s wrong?" "Nightmares, witches, broomsticks," she replied laughing. "Out with it!" he commanded. In her calm, clear tones she gave him a graphic account of the unpleasantness of the last few days, from its inception in her chance encounter with Claude Fontaine down to the demand made upon Mrs. Jerome for her dismissal.