knew it. And some of us know it all our lives. We are living, moving
puppets. We let ourselves be dragged here and pushed there, the victim
of one who happens to have more energy of mind, a greater steadfastness
of purpose, a keener grasp of the situation called life. We smirk and
smile, and lose the game because we have begun by being anvils, and are
afraid of trying to be hammers.

But Etta Sydney Bamborough had to deal with metal of a harder grain than
the majority of us. Claude de Chauxville was for the moment forced to
assume the humble rôle of anvil because he had no choice. Maggie
Delafield was passive for the time being, because that which would make
her active was no more than a tiny seedling in her heart. The girl bid
fair to be one of those women who develop late, who ripen slowly, like
the best fruit.

During the drive to the opera house the two women in Etta's snug little
brougham were silent. Etta had her thoughts to occupy her. She was at
the crucial point of a difficult game. She could not afford to allow
even a friend to see so much as the corners of the cards she held.

In the luxurious box it was easily enough arranged--Etta and Paul
together in front, De Chauxville and Maggie at the other corner of the
box.

"I have asked my friend Karl Steinmetz to come in during the evening,"
said Paul to Etta when they were seated. "He is anxious to make your
acquaintance. He is my--prime minister over in Russia."

Etta smiled graciously.