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 mouth, and her voice was soft and pleasant too, when she spoke to the chauffeur. In spite of the fact, too, that she had just been kept waiting at her dressmaker's for nearly three quarters of an hour. It was now nearly half-past three. But nothing seemed to disturb Cicely's peace of mind to-day. For that morning she had received a gram of her old magic, had dissolved it in a rich mixture of anticipation, and drank often of it all day. The morning mail had contained a note from Roger Dallinger—a brief and formal acceptance to a dinner-party she was giving, but it began, 'Cicely,' and was signed, 'Roger.'

Cicely had hesitated before inviting Roger to dinner, but in view of the interchange of ceremonies the preceding spring, and his own expressed desire to call upon her sometime in the fall, it seemed to her entirely in accordance with her idea of good taste.

Since automobiles had brought Boston within easy motoring distance of Wallbridge, Cicely Morgan's dinner-parties often included Bostonians, and usually interesting Bostonians. Roger had become an interesting Bostonian himself now—a lawyer in a well-known firm, to the distinguished prestige of which he had been no small contributor. Cicely was glad that she was in a position to provide him at dinner with a group of successful contemporaries in his own, as well as other professions, and offer him besides as attractive a selection of women as existed.