the obtrusive type that is made to catch the eye on the street and in
noisy crowded rooms. When Fanny kissed her, Ethel shrank. "I mustn't
do that!" she exclaimed to herself. But the other woman had noticed it
and shot a little look at her.

"You poor girl. I can't tell you how sorry I feel," she was saying.
"It's horrible. Tell me about it."

And Ethel in a lifeless voice recounted the tragedy of the night.

"Where's Joe?"

"In there, with his partner."

"Oh, Mr. Nourse. He would be." Mrs. Carr threw a glance of dislike at
the door. "And you, my dear--I won't ask you now what are your plans.
Just let me help you. What can I do? There's that dinner tonight, to
begin with. Have you let the people know?"

"Not yet--"

"Have you a list of the ones who were asked?"

"I think there's one on Amy's desk."

"Then I'll attend to it."

Soon Fanny was at the telephone. Her voice, hard and incisive, kept
talking, stopping, talking again, repeating it to friend after friend,
and making it hard, abrupt and real, stripping it of its mystery, making