of misery, that he had betrayed his friend anew.

When, that afternoon, he reached home earlier than usual, Alexa's
drawing-room was full of a gayety that overflowed to the stairs.
Flamel, for a wonder, was not there; but Dresham and young Hartly,
grouped about the tea-table, were receiving with resonant mirth a
narrative delivered in the fluttered staccato that made Mrs.
Armiger's conversation like the ejaculations of a startled aviary.

She paused as Glennard entered, and he had time to notice that his
wife, who was busied about the tea-tray, had not joined in the
laughter of the men.

"Oh, go on, go on," young Hartly rapturously groaned; and Mrs.
Armiger met Glennard's inquiry with the deprecating cry that
really she didn't see what there was to laugh at. "I'm sure I
feel more like crying. I don't know what I should have done if
Alexa hadn't been home to give me a cup of tea. My nerves are in
shreds--yes, another, dear, please--" and as Glennard looked his
perplexity, she went on, after pondering on the selection of a
second lump of sugar, "Why, I've just come from the reading, you
know--the reading at the Waldorf."

"I haven't been in town long enough to know anything," said
Glennard, taking the cup his wife handed him. "Who has been
reading what?"

"That lovely girl from the South--Georgie--Georgie what's her
name--Mrs. Dresham's protegee--unless she's YOURS, Mr. Dresham!
Why, the big ball-room was PACKED, and all the women were crying