Mrs. Batjer studied Berenice curiously for a moment, then returned to her needlework. “I’ve asked him down over this week-end,” she suggested. “Yes?” queried Berenice, sweetly. “Are there others?” “Of course,” assented Mrs. Batjer, remotely. “Kilmer doesn’t interest you, I presume.” Berenice smiled enigmatically. “You remember Clarissa Faulkner, don’t you, Bevy?” pursued Mrs. Batjer. “She married Romulus Garrison.” “Perfectly. Where is she now?” “They have leased the Chateau Brieul at Ars for the winter. Romulus is a fool, but Clarissa is so clever. You know she writes that she is holding a veritable court there this season. Half the smart set of Paris and London are dropping in. It is so charming for her to be able to do those things now. Poor dear! At one time I was quite troubled over her.” Without giving any outward sign Berenice did not fail to gather the full import of the analogy. It was all true. One must begin early to take thought of one’s life. She suffered a disturbing sense of duty. Kilmer Duelma arrived at noon Friday with six types of bags, a special valet, and a preposterous enthusiasm for polo and hunting (diseases lately acquired from a hunting set in the Berkshires). A cleverly contrived compliment supposed to have emanated from Miss Fleming and conveyed to him with tact by Mrs. Batjer brought him ambling into Berenice’s presence suggesting a Sunday drive to Saddle Rock. “Haw! haw! You know, I’m delighted to see you again. Haw! haw! It’s been an age since I’ve seen the Haggertys. We missed you after you left. Haw! haw! I did, you know. Since I saw you I have taken up polo—three ponies with me all the time now—haw! haw!—a regular stable nearly.” Berenice strove valiantly to retain a serene interest. Duty was in her mind, the Chateau Brieul, the winter court of Clarissa Garrison, some first premonitions of the flight of time. Yet the drive was a bore, conversation a burden, the struggle to respond titanic, impossible. When Monday came she fled, leaving three days between that and a week-end at Morristown. Mrs. Batjer—who read straws most capably—sighed. Her own Corscaden was not much beyond his money, but life must be lived and the ambitious must inherit wealth or gather it wisely. Some impossible scheming silly would soon collect Duelma, and then— She considered Berenice a little difficult.