Pet had long been impatient of the celebration of Charity Coe's saintly attributes, and it had irked her to see so desirable a catch as Jim Dyckman squandering his time on a woman who was already married and liked it. He might have been interested in Pet if Charity had let him alone. Pet also was stirred with the detestation of sin in orderly people that actuates disorderly people. She broke out with surprising earnestness. “Well, I thought as much! So Charity Coe is human, after all, the sly devil! She's fooling even that foxy husband of hers. She's playing the same game, too--and a sweet little foursome it makes.” She laughed so abominably that Mrs. Neff threw away her cigarette and growled: “Oh, shut up, Pet; you make me sick! Let's go out in the air.” Mrs. Neff was old enough to say such things, and Pet dampered her noise a trifle. But she held Prissy back and made him recount his adventure again. They had a good laugh over it--Prissy giggling and hugging one knee, Pet whooping with that peasant mirth of hers. The same night, at just about the hour when Kedzie Thropp was falling asleep in Crotona Park and Jim Dyckman was sulking alone in his home and Charity was brooding alone in hers, Prissy Atterbury was delighted to see a party of raiders from another house-party motor up to the Winnsboros' and demand a drink. Prissy was a trifle glorious by this time. He had been frequenting a bowl of punch subtly liquored, but too much sweetened. He leaned heavily on a new-comer as he began his story. The new-comer pushed Prissy aside with scant courtesy. “Ah, tell us a new one!” he said. “That's ancient history!” “What-what-what,” Prissy stammered. “Who told you s'mush?” “Pet Bet. telephoned it to us this morning. I heard it from three other people to-day.” “Well, ain't that abslooshly abdominable.” Prissy began to cry softly. He knew the pangs of an author circumvented by a plagiarist. The next morning his head ached and he rang up an eye-opener or two. The valet found him in violet pajamas, holding his jangling head and moaning: “There was too much sugar in the punch.” He remembered Pet's treachery, and he groaned that there was too much vinegar in life. But he determined to fight for his story, and he did. Long after Pet had turned her attention to other reputations, Prissy was still peddling his yarn. The story went circlewise outward and onward like the influence of a pebble thrown into a pool. Two people who had heard the story and doubted it met; one told it to the other; the other said she had heard it before; and they parted mutually supported and definitely convinced that the rumor was fact. Repetition is confirmation, and history is made up of just such self-propelled lies--fact founded on fiction. We create for ourselves a Nero or a Cleopatra, a Washington or a Molly Pitcher, from the gossip of enemies or friends or imaginers, and we can be sure of only one thing--that we do not know the true truth.