hostile friends--if she had been looking anything but her best.

But they were just what she needed; they would be hard and amusing and
keep her at some tension. She thought rather crossly that she could not
sit through a meal at home and listen to Mathilde rambling on about love
and Mr. Farron.

She was inexcusably late, and they had sat down to luncheon--three men
and two women--by the time she arrived. They had all been, or had wanted
to go, to an auction sale of _objets d'art_ that had taken place the
night before. They were discussing it, praising their own purchases, and
decrying the value of everybody else's when Adelaide came in.

"Oh, Adelaide," said her hostess, "we were just wondering what you paid
originally for your tapestry."

"The one in the hall?"

"No, the one with the Turk in it."

"I haven't an idea,--" Adelaide was distinctly languid,--"I got it from
my grandfather."

"Wouldn't you know she'd say that?" exclaimed one of the women. "Not that
I deny it's true; only, you know, Adelaide, whenever you do want to throw
a veil over one of your pieces, you always call on the prestige of your
ancestors."

Adelaide raised her eyebrows.