pleasure had been plain. Mrs. Brewster, after a quiet inquiry
regarding her health, had been less enthusiastic in her welcome.
Barbara was just stifling a yawn when the limousine stopped at the
entrance to the Caf St. Marks.

Inside the caf all was light and gaiety, and Barbara brightened
perceptibly as the attentive head waiter ushered them to the table
Colonel McIntyre had reserved earlier in the evening.

"It's a novel idea turning the old church into a caf ," Barbara
remarked to Benjamin Clymer. "A sort of casting bread upon the
waters of famished Washington. I wonder if they ever turn water
into wine?"

"No such luck," groaned Clymer dismally, looking with distaste
at the sparkling grape juice being poured into the erstwhile
champagne goblet by his plate. "The caf is crowded to-night,"
and he gazed with interest about the room. Colonel McIntyre, who
had loitered behind to speak to several friends at an adjacent table,
took the unoccupied seat by Mrs. Brewster and was soon in animated
conversation with the widow and Clymer; Barbara, her healthy
appetite asserting itself, devoted her entire attention to the
delicious delicacies placed before her. The arrival of the
after-the-theater crowd awoke her from her abstraction, and she
accepted Clymer's invitation to dance with alacrity. When they
returned to the table she discovered that Margaret Brewster and
her father had also joined the dancers.

Barbara watched them while keeping up a disjointed conversation
with Clymer, whose absentminded remarks finally drew Barbara's