the loose locks of her smoky, cropped black hair with the
inscrutable, almost brooding, expression that was her favorite
affectation. Her lithe, loosely built little body was as flat as a
boy's, she clasped her crossed knees with slender, satin-smooth
little brown hands, exposing by her attitude a frill of
embroidered petticoat, a transparent stretch of ash-gray silk
stocking, and smart ash-gray buckskin slippers with silver
buckles.

She was an effective little figure in the mingled twilight and
firelight, but it was toward her beautiful stepmother that
everybody looked as Rachael Breckenridge seated herself on the arm
of old Mrs. Torrence's chair and sent a careless greeting about
the circle.

"Hello, everybody!" she said, in a voice of extraordinary richness
and sweetness, "Peter, Dolly, Vivian--HELLO, Elinor! How do you
do, Mrs. Emory?" There was an aside when the newcomer said
imperatively to a club attendant, "We'll have some light here,
please!" Then she resumed easily: "I do beg your pardon, Mrs.
Emory, I interrupted you--"

"I only said that you were a little late for tea," said Mrs.
Emory, sweetly, wishing with a sort of futile rage that she could
learn to say almost nothing when this other woman, with her
insulting bright air of making one feel inferior, was about. The
Emorys had lived in Belvedere Hills for two years, coming from
Denver with much money and irrefutable credentials. They had been
members of the club perhaps half that time, members in good
standing. But Mrs. Emory would have paid a large sum to have