The meal, as usual under Lita's roof, was one in which delicacies alternated with delays. Mrs. Manford would have been driven out of her mind by the uncertainties of the service and the incoherence of the _menu_; but she would have admitted that no one did a pilaff better than Lita's cook. Gastronomic refinements were wasted on Jim, whose indifference to the possession of the Wyant madeira was one of his father's severest trials. ("I shouldn't have been surprised if _you_ hadn't cared, Nona; after all, you're a Manford; but that a Wyant shouldn't have a respect for old wine!" Arthur Wyant often lamented to her.) As for Lita, she either nibbled languidly at new health foods, or made ravenous inroads into the most indigestible dish presented to her. To-day she leaned back, dumb and indifferent, while Jim devoured what was put before him as if unaware that it was anything but canned beef; and Nona watched the two under guarded lids. The telephone tinkled, and the butler announced: "Mr. Manford, madam." Nona Manford looked up. "For me?" "No, miss; Mrs. Wyant." Lita was on her feet, suddenly animated. "Oh, all right... Don't wait for me," she flung over her shoulder as she made for the door. "Have the receiver brought in here," Jim suggested; but she brushed by without heeding. "That's something new--Lita sprinting for the telephone!" Jim laughed. "And to talk to father!" For the life of her, Nona could not have told why she stopped short with a vague sense of embarrassment. Dexter Manford had always been very kind to his stepson's wife; but then everybody was kind to Lita. Jim's head was bent over the pilaff; he took it down in quick undiscerning mouthfuls. "Well, I hope he's saying something that will amuse her: nothing seems to, nowadays." It was on the tip of Nona's tongue to rejoin: "Oh, yes; it amuses her to say that nothing amuses her." But she looked at her brother's face, faintly troubled under its surface serenity, and refrained. Instead, she remarked on the beauty of the two yellow arums in a bronze jar reflected in the mahogany of the dining-table. "Lita has a genius for flowers." "And for everything else--when she chooses!" The door opened and Lita sauntered back and dropped into her seat. She shook her head disdainfully at the proffered pilaff. There was a pause. "Well--what's the news?" Jim asked. His wife arched her exquisite brows. "News? I expect you to provide that. I'm only just awake." "I mean--" But he broke off, and signed to the butler to remove his plate. There was another pause; then Lita's little head turned on its long interrogative neck toward Nona. "It seems we're banqueting tonight at the Palazzo Manford. Did you know?" "Did I know? Why, Lita! I've heard of nothing else for weeks. It's the annual feast for the Marchesa." "I was never told," said Lita calmly. "I'm afraid I'm engaged." Jim lifted his head with a jerk. "You were told a fortnight ago."