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having married a friend of hers. As a man and possible victim she had continued to ignore him.

She had not changed an iota, yet he had seen her differently. He had found her creeping into his love-stories in heroine rôles, ousting the long line of heroines which he had founded upon the characteristics of Grace. His heroines had imperceptibly developed into wonderful blondes who queened it over his heroes and married them more for their titles than their homes. When an editor had dared to say that he preferred the smaller, clinging type of heroine, Harley had dared to suggest that the public was growing tired of the dowdy women who could do nothing for themselves.

Just about this time he had noticed a dowdiness in Grace of which he had not previously been aware. Grace lacked Patricia’s smartness and sense of style. “Old-fashioned” was how he had described one of her gowns.

“But you have always said you loved me best in dove-grey, Jimmy,” Grace had protested.

“Oh, the colour’s all right, but what’s wrong with the style?”

“This is the latest fashion, Jimmy.”

“Is it? Then it must be the way you wear it. You used to be as smart as they made ’em, Grace, but lately you seem to be slipping. Better get Pat to fit you out with something.”

“As a matter of fact this gown came from Picotarde’s, my dear, and everyone admires it but you.”

He had changed the subject abruptly.

“Can’t you stop Joan playing right underneath my window?” he had asked peevishly. “How am I to get any work done?”

“Why, you've never complained of the child before, Jimmy! You’ve often said you liked to hear her there. What is the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, except that I can’t concentrate while Joan is talking to herself or her dolls.”