"Why, my dear child," she said, "you know perfectly well that I don't care an atom whether you go to your Cousin Henrietta's or not. But I never knew you were so down on receptions. I hope you haven't forgotten that next month you promised to receive with mother and me at ours." Helen wavered a moment, then obstinately continued. "Yes, I have. I've forgotten it absolutely. If I ever said it, I must have been suffering from febrile lesions,--if there are any such things,--and I hereby wave the promise aside with the magnificent gesture of a satrap ordering somebody to execution." Isabel no longer smiled; her answer was a little acid and very distinct. "Of course, if you don't want to help mother and me, no one will compel you to, my dear. Do precisely as you like; do not think of us in any way--we can easily get some one else." Miss Maitland looked quickly up, and saw that there was a suspicious brightness in her friend's eyes, whereby she understood that Isabel felt actually hurt by her diatribe against the social dragon and his works--at least when his works were interwoven with Isabel's own concerns. And because Helen was tender-hearted under all her social armor, and because she and Isabel were fonder of one another than one would have thought possible, considering the diversities between them, she was smitten with swift compunction and hastily withdrew so much of her protest as touched her friend. "You are a silly person, but a dear," she said contritely; "and I didn't really mean what I said about receptions--at least, about yours. But I meant every word about Cousin Henrietta." A slight shadow of doubt lingered in Isabel's eyes, and Helen, seeing it, crossed quickly over to the divan and kissed her lightly on the cheek. The olive branch was accepted and peace restored. "All the same," Miss Maitland presently went on, "there are times, I confess, when I get so tired of some of the things I do that I feel as though I couldn't possibly do them again." Isabel nodded understandingly. "Is there anything in particular that you are so tired of?" she insinuatingly asked. "Yes, Miss Portia, there is. And furthermore you know as well as I do what that something is." "I would hesitate to mention it," said Miss Hurd, with a smile. "Well, I wouldn't. On the contrary I freely and unqualifiedly announce that I am excessively tired of a thousand things, most of which begin with P. I am tired of portraits and portrait painters; I am tired of posing and of poseurs; I am tired of palettes and paint; I am tired of--" she stopped, breaking off a little suddenly. "Well, complete it. You are tired of Pelgram, I suppose," said Isabel, composedly. "Pelgram, then. Yes, I am," the other girl admitted. Her friend raised her eyebrows, and glanced at her somewhat curiously. "You don't have to marry him, you know," she remarked in a matter-of-fact tone.