evening.

Mr. Linmere played and sang with exquisite taste and skill--he was a
complete master of the art, and, in spite of herself, Margie listened to
him with a delight that was almost fascination, but which subsided the
moment the melody ceased.

He judged her by the majority of women he had met, and finding her
indifferent, he sought to rouse her jealousy by flirting with Miss Lee,
who was by no means adverse to his attentions. But Margie hailed the
transfer with a relief which was so evident, that Mr. Linmere, piqued and
irritated, took up his hat to leave, in the midst of one of Miss Lee's
most brilliant descriptions of what she had seen in Italy, from whence
she had just returned. He went over to the sofa where Margie was sitting.

"I hope to please you better next time," he said, lifting her hand.
"Good-night, Margie dear." And before she was aware, he touched his lips
to her forehead. She tore her hand away from him, and a flush of anger
sprang to her cheek. He surveyed her with admiration. He liked a little
spirit in a woman, especially as he intended to be able to subdue it when
it pleased him. Her anger made her a thousand times more beautiful. He
stood looking at her a moment, then turned and withdrew.

Margie struck her forehead with her hand, as if she would wipe out the
touch he had left there.

Alexandrine came and put her arm around Margie's waist.

"I almost envy you, Margie," she said, in that singularly purring voice
of hers. "Ah, Linmere is magnificent! Such eyes, and hair, and such a