"I have enough--almost----" "Ah! the 'almost' betrays the canker feeding on that damask cheek!" laughed Mrs. Lannis. "No, you must marry millions, Strelsa--you'll need them." "You are mistaken. I _have_ enough. I'd like to be happy for a while." The naïve inference concerning the incompatibility of marriage and happiness made them laugh again, forgetting perhaps the tragic shadow of the past which had unconsciously evoked it. After Strelsa and Mrs. Lannis had gone, a pair of old cats dropped in, one in ermine, the other in sea-otter; and the inevitable discussion of Strelsa Leeds began with a brutality and frankness paralleled only in kennel parlance. To a criticism of the girl's slenderness of physique Mrs. Sprowl laughed loud and long. "That's what's setting all the men crazy. The world's as full of curves as I am; plumpness to the verge of redundancy is supposed to be popular among men; a well-filled stocking behind the footlights sets the gaby agape. But your man of the world has other tastes." "Jaded tastes," said somebody. "Maybe they're jaded and vicious--but they're his. And maybe that girl has a body and limbs which are little more accented than a boy's. But it's the last shriek among people who know." "Not such a late one, either," said somebody. "Who was the French sculptor who did the Merode?" "Before that Lippo fixed the type," observed somebody else. "Personally," remarked a third, "I don't fancy pipe-stems. Mrs. Leeds needs padding--to suit my notions." "Wait a year," said Mrs. Sprowl, significantly. "The beauty of that girl will be scandalous when she fills out a little more.... If she only had the wits to match what she is going to be!--But there's a streak of something silly in her--I suspect latent sentiment--which is likely to finish her if she doesn't look sharp. Fancy her taking up the cudgels for Ricky, now!--a boy whose wits would be of no earthly account except in doing what he is doing. And he's apparently persuaded that little minx that he's intellectual! I'll have to talk to Ricky." "You'd better talk to your nephew, too," said somebody, laughing. "Who? Karl!" exclaimed the old lady, her little green eyes mere sparks in the broad expanse of face. "Let me catch him mooning around that girl! Let me catch Ricky philandering in earnest! I've made up my mind about Strelsa Leeds, and"--she glared around her, fanning vigorously--"I _think_ nobody is likely to interfere." * * * * * That evening, at the opera, Westguard came into her box, and she laid down the law of limits to him so decisively that, taken aback, astonished and chagrined, he found nothing to say for the moment. When he did recover his voice and temper he informed her very decidedly that he'd follow his own fancy as far as any woman was concerned. But she only laughed derisively and sent him off to bring Quarren who had entered the Vernons' box and was bending over Strelsa's shoulders.