missive contained the information that the writer of it possessed gray
eyes. All save one. That was accompanied by a photograph on which an
arrow had been drawn pointing towards the eyes. Under the arrow was
naively inscribed, "Gray."

Decatur was not flattered. His dignity suffered. He felt cheapened,
humiliated. The fact that the waning boom of his novel had received new
impetus did not console him. His mildly serious expression gave place to
a worried, injured look.

And then Mrs. Wheeler Upton swooped down on him with a demand for his
appearance at one of her Saturday nights. For Decatur there was no
choice. He was her debtor for so many helpful favors in the past that he
could not refuse so simple a request. Yet he groaned in spirit as he
viewed the prospect. Once it would have been different. Was it not in
her pleasant drawing-rooms that he had been boosted from obscurity to
shine among the other literary stars? Mrs. Upton knew them all. She made
it her business to do so, bless the kindly heart of her, and to see that
they knew each other. No wonder her library table groaned under the
weight of autographed volumes.

But to face that crowd at Mrs. Wheeler Upton's meant to run a rapid-fire
gauntlet of jokes about gray-eyed girls. However, go he must, and go he
did.

He was not a little relieved to find so few there, and that most of them
were young women. A girl often hesitates at voicing a witticism, because
she is afraid, after all, that it may not be really funny. A man never
doubts the excellence of his own humor. So, when a quarter of an hour
had passed without hint of that threadbare topic, he gradually threw off