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 stairs, sopping her eyes with hot water, hardly getting down again before Mrs. Martine was announced.

So handsome and sparkling, she made Kate feel more plain and ill and stupid than ever. Mrs. Martine tactfully ignoring Kate's floury nose and red eyelids, talking smilingly to Joe about "your little wife," being charming to Mr. Donner, and making Kate long to step on her heliotrope train as they went in to dinner.

They filled the small dining room so full that heads bowed like poppies in a windy wheatfield as the platter of guinea chicken went round. Kate pretended to eat, pretended to know what Mr. Donner was talking about, turning to him a face of fixed brightness, while her toes curled in their satin slippers. That soufflé, that soufflé! Why had she ever let Joe persuade her to have a soufflé to-night, instead of nice safe ice cream from Goff's? Joe said ice cream wasn't interesting enough for Mr. Donner, but she couldn't believe there was anyone in the world who wouldn't be interested in ice cream. Lizzie did make good soufflés, but she never had made one for a dinner party before, only for supper when they had something simple like cold meat and she had nothing else on her mind. And to-night, with her headache! Kate saw a black sunken crust, with swimmy liquid underneath

Joe didn't seem to be worrying any more—of course not, with Mrs. Martine leaning all over him, half out of her dress. But I'm sorry I was so cross to you before dinner, Joe. And the tea-roses are lovely, a million