CHAPTER III

FREDERICA'S PLAN AND WHAT HAPPENED TO IT


At twenty minutes after seven that evening, Frederica Whitney was about
as nearly dressed as she usually was ten minutes before the hour at
which she had invited guests to dinner--not quite near enough dressed to
prevent a feeling that she had to hurry.

Ordinarily, though, she didn't mind. She'd been an acknowledged beauty
for ten years and the fact had ceased to be exciting. She took it rather
easily for granted, and knowing what she could do if she chose, didn't
distress herself over being lighted up, on occasions, to something a
good deal less than her full candle-power. To Frederica at thirty--or
thereabout--the job of being a radiantly delightful object of regard
lacked the sporting interest of uncertainty; was almost too simple a
matter to bother about.

But to-night the tenseness of her movements and the faint trace of a
wire edge in the tone in which she addressed the maid, revealed the fact
that she wished she'd started half an hour earlier. Even her husband
discovered it. He brought in a cigarette, left the door open behind him
and stood smiling down at her with the peculiarly complacent look that
characterizes a married man of forty when he finds himself dressed
beyond cavil in the complete evening harness of civilization, ten
minutes before his wife.

She shot a glance of rueful inquiry at him--"Now what have _you_ come