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are you? Do you know, you’ve cost me fifty of Ardath?”

As Patricia gave him no answer to either question, he sighed comically, and, with a whispered “Cheerio!” closed the door.

Patricia waited for a few moments, then moved to the door and locked it.

She caught sight of her reflection in the mirror on the dressing table as she turned.

“That is the question,” she said, bitterly. “What kind of woman are you, Pat Weybourn?”

She disrobed with savage gestures and went to bed.

On the following afternoon, when Patricia alighted from the express at Palmerston North for the purpose of “stretching her legs” upon the station platform, she was in her blackest mood.

She hated everybody and everything. She glared angrily at the men who eyed her with admiration and the women who stopped to appraise her smart travelling costume. She remonstrated sharply with those who jostled her. She was furiously impatient at the few minutes’ wait in the train schedule, although she had neither definite plans nor desire for her journey’s end. She detested Palmerston North, sight unseen.

It was with the greatest effort that she refrained from cutting the woman who bore down upon her from the crowd with an excited cry of recognition.

“Pat! Pat Weybourn! What on earth are you doing down this way? How is the world?”

Patricia forced a smile and held out an unwilling hand.

“Why, if it isn’t little Buzzy!” she exclaimed with spurious heartiness. “So this is where you buried yourself!”