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 "But I've just finished one," Mrs. Durham murmured, modestly.

"Oh," said Victoria, "it's finished, is it? You've been working like a beaver on that book. What is the title to be?"

Mrs. Durham bit her pen, and an expression only to be classed as "grin" came over her face—the grin of a bad, small child—but the expression was lost in the dusk.

"It's to be called 'Whitewash,'" she drawled.

"You're not!" exclaimed Victoria.

"Yes, I am," said Mrs. Durham, "and you're all in it—every one."

"I call that a mean advantage to take of one's friends. And who, pray, is the heroine?"

"I shall leave that to the discriminating public. But I can assure you the portraiture is faithful, and I've written the story verbatim. I haven't added a thing—in fact, I've left out some."

"Thank heavens!" sighed Morton. "What have you cut out?"

"Well, Madame Château-Lamion's final performance. It was so spectacular that the modern 310