In the taxi, slipping rapidly down-town, Linda was conscious of a
slight unusual disturbance of her indifference. This had nothing to
do with whether or not she'd be a success; her own social demands
were so small that any considerable recognition of her was
unimportant. Her present feeling came from the fact that to-night,
practically, she was making her first grown-up appearance in the
world, the world from which she must select the materials of her
happiness and success. To-night she would have an opportunity to put
into being all that--no matter how firmly held--until now had been
but convictions.

Her interest was not in whom or what she might meet, but in herself.
Judith, smoking a cigarette in a mist of silver fox, was plainly
excited. "I like Markue awfully," she admitted.

"Does he care for you?" Linda asked.

"That," said Judith, "I can't make out--if he likes me or if it's
just anonymous woman. I wish it were the first, Linda." Her voice
was shadowed; suddenly, in spite of her youth and exhilaration, she
seemed haggard and spent. Linda recognized this in a cold scrutiny.
Privately she decided that the other was a fool--she didn't watch
her complexion at all.

The motor turned west in the low Forties and stopped before a high
narrow stone facade with a massive griffon-guarded door. Judith led
the way directly into the elevator and designated Markue's floor. It
was at the top of the building, where he met them with his
impenetrable courtesy and took them into a bare room evidently
planned for a studio. There were an empty easel, the high blank