somehow sedate and old-fashioned beside this composed young woman.
Miss Clay was not listening. Her brown eyes were moving idly over
the room, and now she suddenly bowed and smiled.

"There's Greg!" she said. "What a comfort it is to see a man dress
as that man dresses!"

"I've been looking for you," Warren Gregory said, coming up to his
wife, and, noticing the other woman, he added enthusiastically:
"Well, Margaret! I didn't know you! Bless my life and heart, how
you children grow up!"

"Children! I'm twenty-two!" Miss Clay said, pouting, with her
round brown eyes fixed in childish reproach upon his face. They
had been great friends when Warren was with his mother in Paris,
nearly four years ago, and now they fell into an animated
recollection of some of their experiences there with the two old
ladies. While they talked Rachael watched Magsie Clay with
admiration and surprise.

She knew all the girl's history, as indeed everybody m the room
knew it, but to-day it was a little hard to identify the poised
and beautiful young woman who was looking so demurely up from
under her dark lashes at Warren with the "little Clay girl" of a
few years ago.

Parker Hoyt's aunt, the magnificent old Lady Frothingham, had been
just enough of an invalid for the twenty years preceding her death
to need a nurse or a companion, or a social secretary, or someone
who was a little of all three. The great problem was to find the