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 It had grown more plump, and less arch, for she was content and satisfied now with a solid husband, and she showed every sign of presenting a new hostage to fortune.

"Well," she said, shyly. "A lot has happened, hasn't it, Ellen. . . . I suppose I can still call you Ellen."

There was something in May's shyness, in the awe which shone in her eyes, that struck deep into Ellen's humility. It made her feel preposterous and absurd and a little nightmarish.

"Good Heavens!" she replied. "That's my name. Of all the people in the world, you have most right to use it." And then. "But tell me the news. I've been too busy to hear any of it. It's been ten years since I went away."

She found herself blushing, perhaps at the sudden slip of the tongue that betrayed her into recognition of the one unpleasantness that stood between them. It was almost as if she had said, "since I ran away with Clarence."

May, it seemed, was no more eager to mention his name. She hastened past it. "I tried to get Herman to come, but he wouldn't go where there were so many women. He wants to see you. He said to tell you that if you would come to lunch, he'd come home from the works. You'd never know him. He's a father now," she made a sweeping gesture to include the restless troop that surrounded her, "and he has a mustache."

Ellen declined, with a genuine regret. She wanted vaguely to enter the mild, ordered world out of which these four children had come.

"I can't come because I am leaving at eight. You see, I can't do what I like any more. I have engagements . . . concerts which I must keep. But thank him. Maybe he could run over to-night."

May thought not. They were making an inventory at the Junoform factory and Herman would be there until midnight. Harvey Seton (Lily's arch enemy) was dead.

"He died last June. We found him cold in the morning in his bed in the spare room. You see he hadn't slept in the same