The little dinner, which was the first occasion of Senator Blundel's introduction to the Amory establishment, was a decided success. "We will make it a success," Bertha had said. "It _must_ be one." And there was a ring in her voice which was a great relief to her husband. "It will be one," he said. "There is no fear of _your_ failing when you begin in this way." And his spirits rose to such an extent that he became genial and fascinating once more, and almost forgot his late trials and uncertainties. He had always felt great confidence in Bertha. On the afternoon of the eventful day Bertha did not go out. She spent the hours between luncheon and the time for dressing with her children. Once, as he passed the open door of the nursery, Richard saw her sitting upon the carpet, building a house of cards, while Jack, and Janey, and Meg sat about her enchanted. A braid of her hair had become loosened and hung over her shoulder; her cheeks were flushed by the fire; she looked almost like a child herself, with her air of serious absorbed interest in the frail structure growing beneath her hands. "Won't that tire you?" Richard asked. She glanced up with a smile. "No," she said, "it will rest me." He heard her singing to them afterward, and later, when she went to her dressing-room, he heard the pretty lullaby die away gradually as she moved through the corridor. When she appeared again she was dressed for dinner, and came in buttoning her glove, and at the sight of her he uttered an exclamation of pleasure. "What a perfect dress!" he said. "What is the idea? There must be one." She paused and turned slowly round so that he might obtain the full effect. "You should detect it," she replied. "It is meant to convey one." "It has a kind of dove-like look," he said. She faced him again. "That is it," she said, serenely. "In the true artist spirit, I have attired myself with a view to expressing the perfect candor and simplicity of my nature. Should you find it possible to fear or suspect me of ulterior motives--if you were a senator, for instance?" "Ah, come now!" said Richard, not quite so easily, "that is nonsense! You have no ulterior motives." She opened her plumy, dove-colored fan and came nearer him. "There is nothing meretricious about me," she said. "I am softly clad in dove color; a few clusters of pansies adorn me; I am covered from throat to wrists; I have not a jewel about me. Could the effect be better?" "No, it could not," he replied, but suddenly he felt a trifle uncomfortable again, and wondered what was hidden behind the inscrutable little gaze she afterwards fixed upon the fire.