Marchmont leant forward, and prepared to light a cigarette, his thin mouth twisted to an eager smile, his loose hair wagging. “Wait,” she breathed, “I weary of smoke. Give me a lily, Marchmont.” He fetched one of the great Easter lilies from its vase. Placing this on her bosom, she folded her supple hands over it, closed her eyes, and lay still, looking like a Bakst version of the Maid of Astolat. Felicity's hints were usually sufficient for her slaves. Marchmont put away his cigarette, and proceeded with relish to recount the gossip with which, to his long finger-tips, he was charged. “Well,” said he, after an hour's general survey of New York as they both knew it, “I think that about covers the ground. There is, as I said, no question that Einsbacher is still devoted. My own opinion is he will present you with the Nixie. I suppose you received the clippings I sent about the picture? Constance Elliot has only ordered two gowns from the studio since you left--but you will have seen that by the books. She says she is saving her money for the Cause.” He snickered. “The fact is, she grows dowdy as she grows older. Gunther has gone to Frisco with his group. Polly Thayer tells me his adoration of the beautiful Byrd is pathetic. So much in love he nearly broke her neck showing off his driving for her benefit.” Marchmont snickered again. “As for your friend Mr. Byrd--” he smiled with a touch of sly pleasure--“you won't see him, he sailed for France yesterday, alone. His name is in this morning's list of departures.” And he drew a folded and marked newspaper from his pocket. A shade of displeasure had crept over the immobile features of Miss Berber. She opened her eyes and regarded the lank Marchmont with distaste. Her finger pressed a button on the divan. Slowly she raised herself to her elbow, while he watched, his pale eyes fixed on her with the expression of a ratting dog waiting its master's thanks after a catch. “All that you have told me,” said Felicity at last, a slight edge to her zephyr-like voice, “is interesting, but I wish you would remember that while you are free to ridicule my clients, you are not free as regards my friends. Your comment on Connie was in poor taste. I am not in the mood for more conversation this morning. I am fatigued. Good-day, Marchmont.” She sank to her pillows again--her eyes closed. “Oh, I say, Felicity, is that all the thanks I get?” whined her visitor. “Good-day, Marchmont,” she breathed again. The door opened, disclosing Yo San. Marchmont's aesthetic veneer cracked. “Oh, shucks,” he said, “how mean of you!” and trailed out, his cutaway seeming to hang limp like the dejected tail of a dog. The door closed, Felicity bounded up and, running across the room, invoked her own loveliness in the mirror. “Alone,” she whispered to herself, “alone.” She danced a few steps, swayingly. “You've never lived, lovely creature, you've never lived yet,” she apostrophized the dancing vision in the glass.