She sat silent as memories of lonely years in their San Francisco home rose before her. Originally from Boston, she had married Calderon Fordyce in New York, and had accompanied him to the Pacific coast where he had eventually built up an immense importing trade. His business had taken him frequently to the Orient, and Mrs. Fordyce after her railroad accident had perforce remained in San Francisco. She had not minded her husband’s absences so much while her children were young, but when Duncan departed to college, and later Janet to boarding school, her loneliness and physical condition had preyed so much on her mind that her husband had become alarmed. On consulting their physician, Calderon Fordyce had been advised to see that his wife had more distractions, and placing his business affairs in competent hands, he and Mrs. Fordyce had spent the past few years traveling in Europe, and while there she had formed the plan to introduce Janet to Washington society on her reaching her eighteenth year. “I am particularly glad for Janet’s sake that you are here, Duncan,” she said presently. “It is nice for her to have a big elder brother at dances and dinners.” “Miss Langdon takes such excellent care of Janet that my services as cavalier are not required,” replied Duncan lazily. “Janet is pretty enough to have plenty of partners, and Miss Langdon sees that she meets men.” “I think I was very lucky to secure Marjorie,” and Mrs. Fordyce nodded her head complacently. “I think you were,” agreed Duncan, idly turning the leaves of a magazine. “I’m afraid Janet is tiring her out.” “What do you mean?” “Too many late parties,” tersely. “Miss Langdon is fagged out.” “She doesn’t look strong,” admitted Mrs. Fordyce thoughtfully. “But I think her pale cheeks and distrait manner are induced by a love affair.” “Eh!” Duncan turned toward his mother with unusual sharpness. “Who’s the man?” The question seemed almost forced from him. “Chichester Barnard.” “Oh, nonsense.” “It is not nonsense,” replied Mrs. Fordyce, somewhat nettled by his manner. “I have watched them very closely when they are together, and I am sure I am right.” Duncan rose abruptly and walked over to the window. “Mr. Barnard and Marjorie are both so good looking that they would make an ideal couple.” “Ideal?” Duncan’s laugh was mirthless. “You are an idealist, mother.” “Better that than an image breaker,” retorted Mrs. Fordyce. “Now, run along, dear, I must take my usual afternoon nap.” “All right, mother, I’ll be down in the billiard-room if you should want me.”