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 her husband, a dull, safe young man, were present, also Alcie Pender and a dashing Brazilian for whom, Rhoda had told him, Alcie was thinking of divorcing Dick Briarcliffe—already. Massachusetts trying to be France, Grover reflected, with a thought for the greater ease with which such transfers were effected in Biarritz.

"I bet a yelping doughnut you never go back," Folly challenged him.

"You've lost," he replied. "For I'm sailing next week."

Rhoda subdued her surprise, but Grover felt that she could see straight through him to his innermost weakness, though she might have no factual clue.

"You got your letter?" she inquired, and to her guests it might seem that the letter had come from the most important art committee in Paris, impatient of his delay.

He nodded his head, and parried Folly's questions as to what boat he was sailing on and what prospects there were of a send-off party.

When they had all gone, and there was nobody in the house but himself and Rhoda and her self-effacing Aunt Sarita who spent most of her evenings in the rooms to which Rhoda had once unsuspectingly—or suspectingly?—offered Sophie Scantleberry the keys, Rhoda came to him in the old sisterly way.

"I suppose it's no use to argue," she inquired.

He shook his head. "I must go," he said, not in