engaged her. Then, at the moment when she saw an inviting and
correctly conventional youth, he crossed and sat at her side.

"Quite a show," he said in the manner she had expected and approved.
The glow of his cigarette wavered over firmly cut lips. "We've just
come to New York," he continued. "I don't know any one here but
Markue, do you?" Linda explained her own limitations. "The Victory's
fine and familiar."

She followed his gaze to where a winged statue with flying drapery
was set on a stand. She had seen it before, but without interest.
Now it held her attention. It wasn't a large cast, not over three
feet high, but suddenly Linda thought that it was the biggest thing
in the room; it seemed to expand as she watched it.

Beside the Victory, in a glass case with an enclosed concealed
light, was a statue, greenish gray, a few inches tall, with a
sneering placidity of expression as notable as the sweep of the
other white fragment. "That's Chinese," her companion decided; "it
looks as old as lust." There was the stir of new arrivals--a
towering heavy man with a slight woman in emerald satin. "There's
Pleydon, the sculptor," the youth told her animatedly. "I've seen
him at the exhibitions. It must be Susanna Noda, the Russian singer,
with him. He's a tremendous swell."




XIV