Kedzie felicitated herself on escaping from his thrall just in time to avoid being stupefied by it. She thanked Heaven that she had not flung her arms around him and claimed him for her own. She had the cleverness of elusion that her sex displays in all the species, from Cleopatras to clams, from butterflies to rhinoceroses. How wisely they practise to evade what they demand, leaving the stupid male to ponder the mysteries of womankind! When Kedzie reached her mirror she told the approving person she found there that she was doing pretty well for a poor young girl not long in from the country. She postured joyously as she undressed, and danced a feminine war-dance in much the same costume that she wore when Jim Dyckman fished her out of the pool at Newport. She sang: “I dreamt that I fell in a mar-arble pool With nobles and swells on all si-i-ides.” She had slapped her rescuer's hands away then and groaned to learn that she had driven off a famous plutocrat. But now he was back; indeed he was in the pool now, and she had him on her hook. He had grievously disappointed her by turning out to be a commonplace young man with no gilt on his phrases. But one must be merciful to a million dollars. The next morning she dreamed of him as a suitor presenting her with a bag of gold instead of a bouquet. Just as she reached for it the telephone rang and a hall-boyish voice told her that it was seven o'clock. This was the midnight alarm to Cinderella, and she became again a poor working-girl. She had to abandon her prince and run from the palace of dreams to the studio of toil. She was a trifle surly when she confronted Ferriday. He studied her, smilingly queerly and overplaying indifference: “Have a nice dinner last night?” Kedzie fixed him with a skewery glare: “What's your little game? Why did you turn up missing?” “I had another engagement. Didn't you get my note?” “Ah, behave, behave!” said Kedzie, then blushed at the plebeian phrase. She was beginning to have a quickly remorseful ear. As soon as she should learn to hear her first thoughts first, and suppress them unspoken, she would be a made lady. “Oh, you're a true artist, Anita,” said Ferriday. “Nothing can hinder your flight into the empyrean.” “Don't sing it. Explain it,” Kedzie sneered. Ferriday laughed so delightedly that he must embrace her. She shoved him back and brushed the imaginary dust of his contact from the shoulders that had but lately been compressed by a million dollars. “I see you landed him,” said Ferriday. “And I see that all your talk about loving me so much was just a fake,” said Kedzie. “Why do you say that? I adore you.” “If you did, would you throw me at the head of another fellow?” asked Kedzie. “If it was for the advancement of your career, yes,” Ferriday insisted. “What's Mr. Dyckman got to do with my career?” “He can make it, if he doesn't break it.” “Come again.”