“Yes, it was dreadful,” said June, nestling closer about the sitting figure and smiling in dreamy delight. “Somebody trod on it while I was dancing, and then they danced away with it round them, and it tore off me in yards, as if I was a top and it was my string.” “Were you dancing with Jerry Barclay?” asked Rosamund. “I don’t think so.” She turned her head in profile on the pillow and looked at her sister out of the corner of her eye. Meeting Rosamund’s sober glance she broke into suppressed laughter. “What’s the matter with you, Rosie?” she said, giving her a little kick through the bed-clothes; “you look as solemn as an undertaker.” “I don’t think you ought to have danced so often with Jerry Barclay. It--it--doesn’t look well. It--” she stopped. “‘It’--well, go on. Tell me all about it. A child could play with me to-night. You couldn’t make me angry if you tried.” “June,” said Rosamund, turning toward her with annoyed seriousness, “I don’t think you ought to be friends with Jerry Barclay.” “What do you say that for?” Despite her previous remark as to the difficulty of making her angry, there was a distinct, cold edge on June’s voice as she spoke. “I found out to-night. Ever since we heard those men talk that evening at Mrs. Davenport’s I had a feeling that something wasn’t right. And then Uncle Jim being so positive about not asking Mrs. Newbury here this evening.” “What’s Mrs. Newbury got to do with it?” “Everything. It’s all Mrs. Newbury. To-night in the dressing-room some girls were talking about her and Mr. Barclay; I asked them what they meant, and I heard it all. It’s a horrid story. I don’t like to tell it to you.” “What is it?” said June. She had turned her head on the pillow and stared full face at her sister. She was tensely, frowningly grave. “Well, they say--every one says--they’re lovers.” “Lovers!” exclaimed June. “What do you mean by that? She’s married.” “That’s just the dreadful part of it. They’re that kind of lovers--the wrong kind. They’ve been for years, and she loves him desperately and won’t let him have anything to do with anybody else. And Mr. Newbury loves her, and doesn’t know, and thinks Jerry Barclay is his friend.” There was a silence in the room. Rosamund had found it difficult to tell this base and ignoble piece of scandal to her sister. Now she did not look at June because she loved her too much to witness the shame and pain that she knew would be hers. “It’s too horrible,” she continued, June uttering no sound. “I wouldn’t have told you, but--well, we don’t want him coming here if he’s that sort of man. And Mrs. Newbury--” she made a gesture of angry disgust--“what right had _she_ to come here and call on us?” June still said nothing. Her hand was lying on the counterpane and Rosamund, placing hers on it, felt that it trembled and was cold. This, with the continued silence, alarmed her and she said, trying to palliate the blow,