"Let me determine how far in I shall go," her mother answered quietly. "I simply want the information now--I'll decide later." Stephanie named them. "But you must remember, dear," she appended, "that I didn't give them much opportunity even to show a disposition to recognize me. And more of my own friends were there than of yours--and they didn't show any particular eagerness to speak. I can understand their feelings and position. My advent was like a bomb hurled into the crowd. They chose the safest course, which was to sit still and pretend not to see me. I reckon I'd have done the same had I been one of them. They will all come around in time. Gladys Chamberlain has already led off; the rest will follow more or less rapidly--according to disposition or their fear of Society's frown." She talked rapidly, seeking, for her mother's sake, to make light of her position. And her mother understood, and smiled in indulgent appreciation. She had been averse to Stephanie's going out that afternoon, even for a drive. She never for an instant had thought of her going to the Club. She wanted her to remain passively at home until her coming had ceased to be the latest wonder; until the talk had died down, and people had got used to the new situation and had decided what they would do. It was a case for slow progress and patient waiting. But Stephanie had ever been impulsive, and a trifle headstrong when the notion seized her. Mrs. Mourraille knew what it meant--she herself had been like Stephanie until she had broken her inclinations to the ways of expediency. There was no utility in crying over what was past. No one regretted her daughter's _faux pas_ more than she, but the business now was to overcome its results and have her start afresh. Assuredly this episode at the Club was not to her idea of the proper style of campaign. "It is most unfortunate, Stephanie, most unfortunate!" she observed thoughtfully. "Only one thing could be more unfortunate--for you to have met Harry Lorraine there and have had him deny you before them all." "Then the most unfortunate has happened," Stephanie replied tranquilly. "My husband did meet me on the front piazza--and, before them all, he turned his back upon me and walked away." "The brute!" cried Mrs. Mourraille. Then her grey eyes half closed in contemplation, and for a little while she was silent. Stephanie leisurely brushed her hair and waited. "Do you think he quite realized what he was doing?" Mrs. Mourraille asked presently. "I don't know," said Stephanie indifferently. "Moreover, it doesn't matter. It finished me with him utterly. I wouldn't go back to him now if he got down on his knees on the spot, and before all of them implored it. I thought I despised him before; now I'm sure of it--and I hate and loath him beside." She got up, and crossing to her mother sank down on the floor beside her and took her hands.