"I'm glad I've acted the part so well," she smiled. "I only hope I can keep it up to the end--if there is ever to be an end." "It can always have a certain end, Stephanie," he whispered. "Thank you, Montague; I'll not pretend that I don't understand--nor that I----" she broke off, and looked by him and out to the distant horizon. "It is no use for us to discuss the impossible," she said softly. "It is going to be the probable," he declared. "Then wait until it _is_ the probable." "And then it is going to be the _fact_." She shook her head--but an adorable smile came into her soft blue eyes. "You seem very sure, my friend," she whispered. "I am very sure, dear," he replied. "Very sure, indeed." "You must not call me dear," she reminded him. "Dearest, then," he amended. "Nor dearest, either." "Darling!" "Worse still." "Sweetheart!" "Not even sweetheart." He sighed.--"You're very hard to please!" "Do you think so?" she asked naïvely. "In the matter of names, I mean." "Appellations of friendship were better." "But it isn't friendship!" he laughed. "Not friendship?" "Well, call it friendship, if _you_ please. I'll call it something else." "A riddle!" she exclaimed. "To which the answer is found on the next page--shall we turn it?" "Do you think it wise?" she asked--"wise to turn the new page before we have finished the old?" "No, it is _not_ wise," he answered slowly. "You are right, _Stephanie_. You see I call you simply Stephanie, but it is hard to have to read what doesn't interest me." "If it is hard to have to _read_, what do you think it is to have to live it?" she asked. "It must be hell!" he replied. "It _is_ hell," she admitted--"hell of my own making--that is what hurts." "Don't let it hurt, Stephanie," he pleaded, taking her hand. "It will all come right very soon--very soon, I'm persuaded." "By what?" "By the natural turn of events--they can't go against you much longer." "The only turn that would help me would be for Porshinger to die suddenly--and Lorraine to become reasonable and give me my freedom." "If Porshinger were to die suddenly," he repeated thoughtfully. "Yes, that might clarify the matter very much. Unfortunately Porshinger isn't cultivating death these days--he has quit shooting wells, you know." "And he hasn't any cause to shoot himself," she remarked. "He has plenty of causes but he won't recognize them!" Pendleton smiled. The Postlewaite carriage drove up with a flourish, and Mrs. Postlewaite descended with heavy dignity and becoming condescension. Her arrival was an event at the Club-house--only equalled by the arrival of the other Queen P; and she was fully aware of the fact. The doorman and a couple of "buttons" danced out--and continued to dance during the royal progress inward--while a crowd of her satellites, who were on the piazza, rushed forward to meet her. "It is very amusing--Mrs. Postlewaite's assumption of greatness," Pendleton remarked.