"I stopped for a moment to look at you, nothing more," she confessed.
"It was a choice between looking at you and at the Rembrandt in the
Metropolitan, and I chose you." As she held Gerty from her for an
instant and then drew her into her embrace again, Kemper saw that her
delight in her friend's beauty was almost a rapture, that her friendship
possessed something of a religious fervour.

"Do stay with me," pleaded Gerty; "I want you--I need you."

"But you dine out."

"Oh, I forgot. Wait, I'll break it. I'll be ill."

Laura smiled her refusal and, stooping, picked up her large, fluffy
muff.

"I'll come to-morrow," she returned, "and it won't cost us a lie. Good
bye, my bonnie, what do you wear?"

Gerty waved her hands in a gesture of unconcern.

"It rests with the fates and with Annette," she replied. "Green, blue,
white; I don't care."

"But I do," persisted Laura; "let it be white." She looked at Kemper and
bowed silently as she turned toward the door; then, hesitating an
instant, she came back and held out her hand with a cordial smile. "It
has been very pleasant to meet you," she said.