Mrs. Neff sat back triumphantly and let the meeting proceed. But there was a gray pall on the occasion. Women began to look at their wrist-watches and pretend to be shocked at the lateness of the hour, and all of them shook hands solemnly with Charity. There was a poorly veiled condolence in their tone. Charity carried it off pluckily, but she was in a dangerous humor. She really could not endure the patronizing mercy of these women. That night Cheever made again his appearance at the dinner-table. He had some notion of putting Charity off her guard or of atoning to her in part for his resumed alliance with Zada. He could not have told what his own motives were, for he was in a state of bewilderment between his duties to Mrs. Charity Tweedledum and Miss Zada Tweedledee. He could not tell which one had the greater claim on his favors. Charity studied him across the table and wondered what he really was, faun or traitor, Mormon or weakling. He was certainly handsome, but the influence of Zada L'Etoile seemed to hang about him like a green slime on a statue. She could not find any small talk to carry the meal along. At length Cheever asked: “What you been up to all day?” “Oh, committee stuff--that movie thing, you know.” “How's it coming on? Got a manager yet?” “Not yet. We were talking about getting some professionals in to brighten up the evening.” “Good work! Those amateurs make me sick.” “Mrs. Neff proposed that we get some stunning dancer to do a turn.” “Not a bad idea. For instance--” He emptied his glass of Chablis and the butler was standing by to refill it when Charity answered: “Mrs. Neff suggested a dancer I haven't seen on the stage for some time. You used to admire her.” “Yes?” said Cheever, pushing his glass along the table toward the butler, who began to pour as Charity slid home her _coup de grace_. “Zada L'Etoile. What's become of her?” Cheever's eyes gaped and his jaws dropped. The butler's expression was the same. He poured the Chablis on the back of Cheever's hand and neither noticed it till Charity laughed hysterically and drove the sword a little deeper: “Is she still alive? Have you seen her?” Cheever glared at her, breathed hard, swore at the butler, wiped his hand on his napkin, gnawed his lips, twisted his mustache, threw down the napkin, rose, and left the table. Charity's smile turned to a grimace. She saw that the butler was ashamed of her. He almost told her that she ought to have known better than subject him and the other servants to such a scene. Charity caught herself about to say, “I beg your pardon, Hammond.” She felt as if she ought to beg the pardon of everybody in the world. She could not stand the lonely dining-room long. She rose and walked out. It seemed that she would never reach the door. It was a _via crucis_ to her. Her back ached with the sense of eyes upon it.