Madeleine wore a gown of amber-colored silk with a bertha of fine
lace and mousseline de soie, exposing her beautiful shoulders. The
color seemed reflected in her eyes and the bright waving masses of
her hair.

"Madame Deforme made it," she said triumphantly. "Now don't
criticize our dressmakers again."

"Never criticize anybody but can't help noticing things. Got the
observing eye. Nothing escapes it. How are you off for books now that
Masters has deserted us?"

Madeleine turned cold, for the inference was unmistakable, and she
saw Mr. McLane scowl at him ferociously, But she replied smilingly
that there was always the Mercantile Library.

"Never have anything new there, and even C. Beach hasn't had a new
French novel for six months. If Masters were one of those considerate
men, now, he'd have left you the key of his rooms. Nothing
compromising in that. But it would be no wonder if he forgot it, for
I hear it wasn't his mother's illness that took him to Richmond, but
Betty Thornton who's still a reigning toast. Old flame and they say
she's come round. Had a letter from my sister."

Madeleine, who was lifting a goblet, let it fall with a crash. She
had turned white and was trembling, but she lifted another with an
immediate return of self-control, and said, "How awkward of me! But I
have had a headache for three days and the gas makes the room so warm."

And then she fainted.