flew round in a vicious circle of irritatingly small circumference, occasionally flying off on the tangent of the solicited kiss. The first person she met in the vestibule of the Carlton was Theodore Weever. They exchanged greetings, discovered they belonged to the same party. She had come across him frequently of late in the houses that Norma and herself had as common ground. In a general way she liked him; since Norma had told her of his view of the scandal, he had risen high in her estimation; but to-night he seemed to be a link in the drama that perplexed her, and she shrank from him, as from something uncanny. He sat next her at table. His first words were of Jimmie. “I was buying pictures yesterday from a friend of yours--Padgate.” In her pleasure Connie forgot her nervousness. “Why, he never told me.” “He could scarcely have had time unless he telephoned or telegraphed.” “He was at my house this afternoon,” she explained. He carefully peppered his oysters, then turned his imperturbable face towards her. “So was Miss Hardacre.” “How do you know that?” she cried, startled. “I was calling in Devonshire Place. Her mother told me. I am not necromantic.” His swift uniting of the two names perturbed her. She swallowed her oysters unreflectingly, thus missing one of her little pleasures in life, for she adored oysters. “Which pictures did you buy?” she asked. “The one I coveted was not for sale. It was a portrait of Miss Hardacre. I don't think he meant me to see it, but I came upon him unawares. Have you seen it?” They discussed the portrait for a while. Connie repeated her former question. Weever replied that he had bought the picture of the faun looking at the vision of things to come, and the rejected Italian study. Connie expressed her gladness. They contained Jimmie's best work. “Very fine,” Weever admitted, “but just failing in finish. Nothing like the portrait.” There was an interval. Connie exchanged remarks with old Colonel Pawley, her right-hand neighbour, who expatiated on the impossibility of consuming Bortsch soup with satisfaction outside Russia. The soup removed, Weever resumed the conversation. “Have you read your Lamartine thoroughly? I have. I was sentimental once. He says somewhere, _Aimer pour être aimé, c'est de l'homme; mais aimer pour aimer, c'est presque de l'ange_. I remember where it comes from. It was said of Cecco in 'Graziella.' Our friend Padgate reminds me of Cecco. Do you care much about your cousin Morland King, Mrs. Deering?” Connie, entirely disconcerted by his manner, looked at him beseechingly. “Why do you ask me that?” “Because he is one of the _dramatis persona_ in a pretty little comedy on which the curtain is not yet rung down.” She greatly dared. “Are you too in the caste?” Theodore Weever deliberately helped himself to fish before replying. Then with equal deliberation he stared into her flushed and puzzled face.