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 day in November. I guess it must be Indian summer, maybe. Charlotte's going to take Mrs. Whipple for a drive this afternoon, it's so nice. 'S'kind of funny to remember how grand the old lady used to be, with her coachman and acting so superior and everything, and now she's very glad to go for a ride in Hoagland's Packard. Well, it's a queer world."

A steady gentle grunting from the bed indicated that her husband was asleep already, and she thought of lying down herself, on the sofa heaped with cushions in what Annie Laurie Collins, who had taken up interior decorating, called "boudoir tints" of old rose and mauve, scratchy with gold lace. The cushions, of course, had to be put in a chair before you could lie down on the sofa. There was a great deal of gold lace and galloon in the room, on lamp shades, on the hoop-skirt doll Mrs. Driggs always forgot to put the telephone back in. It was a handsome room, she thought contentedly, not plain, like Charlotte's, or shabby, like Mrs. Green's.

"Well, I guess I'll have a nice lie-down, too," she whispered to herself, with such a wide yawn that she felt the hinge of her jaw nervously. But she still sat looking sleepily out of the window at the bare maple branches. The Monroes' maid starting for her Sunday off in Mrs. Monroe's claret-colored hat that Mrs. Driggs had often played bridge opposite. Terriss Jackson, just back from London, in new tweeds, stepping bouncingly past with a large walking stick and