Her house was dainty, correct and artistic, and yet, I knew its atmosphere would not please my Aunt Lucy, or be just the right place for Winnie. Many of the guests I knew. Cassie Weldon was a concert singer and Ariadne Gale an artist of some prominence, both socially and in her art circle. Jim Ferris and Bailey Mason were actors of a good sort, and Bert Garrison, a member of one of my best clubs, was a fast rising architect. Steele hadn't come yet. Two tables of bridge were playing in the back part of the room, and in the rest of the rather limited space several couples were dancing. "Mayn't we open the doors to the dining room, Vicky?" called out one of the card players. "The calorics of this room must be about ninety in the shade." "Open them a little way," returned Miss Van Allen. "But not wide, for there's a surprise supper and I don't want you to see it yet." They set the double doors a few inches ajar and went on with their game. The dining room, as I knew, was a wide room that ran all across the house behind both living-room and hall. It was beautifully decorated in pale green and silver, and often Vicky Van would have a "surprise supper," at which the favors or entertainers would be well worth waiting for. Having greeted many whom I knew, I looked about for further speech with my hostess. "She's upstairs in the music room," said Cassie Weldon, seeing and interpreting my questing glance. "Thank you, lady, for those kind words," I called back over my shoulder, and went upstairs. The front room on the second floor was dubbed the "music room," Vicky said, because there was a banjo in it. Sometimes the guests brought more banjos and a concert of glees and college songs would ensue. But more often, as to-night, it was a little haven of rest and peace from the laughter and jest below stairs. It was an exquisite white and gold room, and here, too, as I entered, pale pink shades dimmed the lights to a soft radiance that seemed like a breaking dawn. Vicky sat enthroned on a white divan, her feet crossed on a gold-embroidered white satin foot-cushion. In front of her sat three or four of her guests all laughing and chatting. "But he vowed he was going to get here somehow," Mrs. Reeves was saying. "What's his name?" asked Vicky, though in a voice of little interest. "Somers," returned Mrs. Reeves. "Never heard of him. Did you, Mr. Calhoun?" and Vicky Van looked up at me as I entered. "No; Miss Van Allen. Who is he?" "I don't know and I don't care. Only as Mrs. Reeves says he is coming here tonight, I'd like to know something about him." "Coming here! A man you don't know?" I drew up a chair to join the group. "How can he?" "Mr. Steele is going to bring him," said Mrs. Reeves. "He says--Norman Steele says, that Mr. Somers is a first-class all-around chap, and no end of fun. Says he's a millionaire." "What's a millionaire more or less to me?" laughed Vicky. "I choose my friends for their lovely character, not for their wealth."