“Everything;” Margaret threw out both hands with a gesture which seemed to appeal to earth and heaven; “a blind fool, Bobby! You love her, she probably loves you, and yet you stand by and let her go! Fool, fool!” Margaret drew her brows down, her cheeks flaming: “‘He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, Who fears to put it to the touch, To win or lose it all!’” she quoted defiantly. Allestree lighted another cigarette. “My dear Margaret,” he said, “let me show you this sketch of my mother.” Margaret bit her lip and stood watching as he turned over two or three sketches. As he did so her quick eye caught familiar outlines. “So, that is Lily Osborne?” she said, with a hard little laugh; “I’m not sensitive, Bobby, let me see it. Did you know the latest gossip about her?” Allestree shook his head. “Spare me!” he said smiling. “Not a bit of it, you deserve no quarter!” Margaret took the sketch and looked at it, ignoring the one of Mrs. Allestree; “it’s good,” she commented with amusement; “how fine and full blooded she looks, and reptilian. The gossip is that she’s caused the recall of the Russian Ambassador; she’s been telling tales out of school, the female diplomatist, you know! What did you do, by the way, when she met Rose here?” “Oh, we got on,” said Allestree laughing; “what of it?” “You haven’t heard?” Margaret laughed; “Rose went there to one of madame’s small and earlies; you know the kind? It seems they played bridge and Rose didn’t understand it was for money; imagine a lamb in the hands of wolves! Poor little simpleton! Well, Lily told her at last that she owed two hundred. Rose fled home, and the judge--” Margaret laughed and shrugged her shoulders. “Old Testament Christian, you know! He sent the check but he told Rose to cut her dead.” “I knew there was something; Rose never told me, but they speak,” he rejoined, “the way you women do! In spite of your shrugs, Margaret, you know the ethics of the thing were abominable; it’s swindling.” Margaret continued to laugh. “My dear Bobby,” she said, “Rose isn’t sixteen and we all play bridge; I lost six hundred last night; she should have known. It’s tiresome to be a madonna on a pillar!” “Still Rose was right,” he said bluntly. “Oh, granted!” Margaret touched his arm lightly; “and you love her!” Allestree made an impatient movement. “Don’t torture me, Margaret!” he said sharply. She whirled around and held out both hands, her eyes moist. “I’m a brute, Bobby!” she cried; “forgive me--I always say the wrong thing unless some one sets me a copy; let’s talk about Mahomet’s coffin!” X