in horizons of wrinkles.

"I'm sure, Olivia, I think you ought to be careful what you say,"
she plaintively began. "Mr. Hastings never allowed his name to go in
any printed lists even, he was so particular. Our telephone had a
private number, and all the papers had instructions never to mention
him, even if he was murdered, unless he took down the notice
himself. Then if anything important did happen, he often did take it
down, nicely typewritten, and sometimes even then they didn't use
it, because they knew how very particular he was. And of course we
don't know how--"

St. George's eyes blazed, but he did not lift them. The affront was
unstudied and, indeed, unconscious. But Miss Holland understood how
grave it was, for there are women whose intuition would tell them
the etiquette due upon meeting the First Syndic of Andorra or a
noble from Gambodia.

"We want the truth about this as much as Mr. St. George does," she
said quickly, smiling for the first time. St. George liked her
smile. It was as if she were amused, not absent-minded nor yet a
prey to the feminine immorality of ingratiation. "Besides," she
continued, "I wish to know a great many things. How did the mulatto
woman impress you, Mr. St. George?"

Miss Holland loosened her coat, revealing a little flowery waist,
and leaned forward with parted lips. She was very beautiful, with
the beauty of perfect, blooming, colourful youth, without line or
shadow. She was in the very noon of youth, but her eyes did not
wander after the habit of youth; they were direct and steady and a