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one of my
beauty days," she thought.
    Jim was drawing her arm through his. "Come along, my girl. Is
there going to be any lunch?" he queried, turning toward the dining–
room.
    "Oh, probably. In this house the same things always happen every
day," Lita averred with a slight grimace.
    "Well, I'm glad lunch does—on the days when I can make a dash up–
town for it."
    "On others Lita eats goldfish food," Nona laughed.
    "Luncheon is served, madam," the butler announced.
    The meal, as usual under Lita's roof, was one in which delicacies
alternated with delays. Mrs. Manford would have been driven out of
her mind by the uncertainties of the service and the incoherence of
the menu; but she would have admitted that no one did a pilaff
better than Lita's cook. Gastronomic refinements were wasted on
Jim, whose indifference to the possession of the Wyant madeira was
one of his father's severest trials. ("I shouldn't have been
surprised if YOU hadn't cared, Nona; after all, you're a Manford;
but that a Wyant shouldn't have a respect for old wine!" Arthur
Wyant often lamented to her.) As for Lita, she either nibbled
languidly at new health foods, or made ravenous inroads into the
most indigestible dish presented to her. To–day she leaned back,
dumb and indifferent, while Jim devoured what was put before him as
if unaware that it was anything but canned beef; and Nona watched
the two under guarded lids.
    The telephone tinkled, and the butler announced: "Mr. Manford,
madam."
    Nona Manford looked up. "For me?"
    "No, miss; Mrs. Wyant."
    Lita was on her feet, suddenly animated. "Oh, all right…
Don't wait for me," she flung over her shoulder as she made for the
door.
    "Have the receiver brought in here," Jim suggested; but she brushed
by without heeding.
    "That's something new—Lita sprinting for the telephone!" Jim
laughed.
    "And to talk to father!" For the life of her, Nona could not have
told why she stopped short with a vague sense of embarrassment.
Dexter Manford had always been very kind to his stepson's wife; but
then everybody was kind to Lita.
    Jim's head was bent over the pilaff; he took it down in quick
undiscerning mouthfuls.
    "Well, I hope he's saying something that will amuse her: nothing
seems to, nowadays."
    It was on the tip of Nona's tongue to rejoin: "Oh, yes; it amuses
her to say that nothing amuses her." But she looked at her
brother's face, faintly troubled under its surface serenity, and
refrained.
    Instead, she remarked on the beauty of the two yellow arums in a
bronze jar reflected in the mahogany of the dining–table. "Lita
has a genius for flowers."
    "And for everything else—when she chooses!"
    The door opened and Lita sauntered back and dropped into her seat.
She shook her head disdainfully at the proffered pilaff. There was
a pause.
    "Well—what's the news?" Jim asked.
    His wife arched her exquisite brows. "News? I expect you to
provide that. I'm only just awake."
    "I mean—" But he broke off, and signed to the butler to remove
his plate. There was another pause; then Lita's little head turned
on its long interrogative neck toward Nona. "It seems we're
banqueting tonight at the Palazzo Manford. Did you know?"
    "Did I know? Why, Lita! I've heard of nothing else for weeks.
It's the annual feast for the Marchesa."
    "I was never told," said Lita calmly. "I'm afraid I'm engaged."
    Jim lifted his head with a jerk. "You were told a fortnight ago."
    "Oh, a fortnight! That's too long to remember anything. It's like
Nona's telling me that I ought to admire my drawing–room because I
admired it two years ago."
    Her husband reddened to the roots of his tawny hair. "Don't you
admire it?" he asked, with a sort of juvenile dismay.
    "There; Lita'll be happy now—she's produced her effect!" Nona
laughed a little nervously.
    Lita joined in the laugh. "Isn't he like his mother?" she
shrugged.
    Jim was silent, and his sister guessed that he was afraid to insist
on the dinner engagement lest he should increase his