hotel, Decatur felt scarcely better acquainted with her than before he
had found her again.

Next evening, according to schedule, Mabel appeared. She was an
exquisite young woman, there was no doubt about that. She carried
herself with an almost royal air which impressed even the head waiter.
Her perfect figure, perfectly encased, was graceful in every long curve.
Her Devon-repaired complexion was of dazzling purity, all snowy white
and sea-shell pink. One could hardly imagine how even so aristocratic a
malady as a rose-cold could have dared to redden slightly the tip of
that classic nose.

Turning to Decatur with languid interest she murmured:

"Ah, you see I have not forgotten you, although I often do forget faces.
You may sit here, if you please, and talk to me."

It was quite like being received by a sovereign, Decatur imagined. He
did his best to talk, and talk entertainingly, for no other reason than
that it was expected of him. At last he said something which struck the
right chord. The perfect Mabel smiled approvingly at him, and he noticed
for the first time that her eyes were gray. Suspiciously he glanced
across the table at Jane. Was that a mocking smile on her thinly curved
lips, or was it meant for kindly encouragement?

Little by little during the succeeding two days he pieced out the
situation. It was not a plot exactly, unless you could dignify Mrs.
Philo Allen's confident plans by such a name. But, starting with what
basis Heaven only knew, she had reached the conclusion that when the
author of _The Insurgent_ had described Sunday Weeks he could have had