this between them, the two women were able to go through the required form of avoiding silences.  Sylvia was fearfully bored by the succession of unknown faces, and utterly unable to distinguish, in her hostess’ somewhat disconnected talk, between the different sets of the Colonel’s children.  “This one is Stanley, Jermain’s brother, who died when he was a baby,” the dull voice droned on; “and this is Mattie in her wedding dress.”

“Oh, I didn’t know Jerry had a married sister,” murmured Sylvia indifferently, glad of any comment to make.

“She’s only his half-sister, a great deal older.”

“But you haven’t a daughter old enough to be married?” queried Sylvia, astonished.

“Oh—­no—­no.  Mattie is the daughter of the Colonel’s first wife.”

“Oh,” said Sylvia awkwardly, remembering now that Mrs. Draper had spoken of the Colonel’s several marriages.  She added to explain her question, “I’d forgotten that Jerry’s mother was the Colonel’s second wife and not his first.”

“She was his third,” breathed Mrs. Fiske, looking down at the pages of the album.

Sylvia repressed a “Good gracious!” of startled repugnance to the topic, and said, to turn the conversation, “Oh, who is that beautiful little girl with the fur cap?”

“That is my picture,” said Mrs. Fiske, “when I was eighteen.  I was married soon after.  I’ve changed very much since my marriage.”  Decidedly it was not Sylvia’s lucky day for finding topics of talk.  She was wondering how the billiard game was progressing, and was sorry she had not risked going with the others.  She was recalled by Mrs. Fiske’s saying with a soft earnestness, “I want you to know, Miss Marshall, how I appreciate your kindness to me!”

Sylvia looked at her in astonishment, half fearing that she was being made fun of.

The other went on:  “It was very nice of you—­your staying here to talk with me instead of going off with the young people—­the others don’t often—­” She played nervously with a gleaming pendant on a platinum chain which hung over her flat chest, and went on:  “I—­you have always seemed to me the very nicest of Jerry’s friends—­and I shall never forget your mother’s kindness.  I hope—­I hope so much I shall see more of her.  The Colonel thinks so too—­we’ve liked so much having him like you.”  The incoherence of this did not prevent Sylvia’s having a chillingly accurate grasp on its meaning.  “It is the Colonel’s hope,” she went on painfully, “to have Jerry marry as soon as he graduates from the Law School.  The Colonel thinks that nothing is so good for a young man as an early marriage—­though of course Jerry isn’t so very, very young any more.  He—­the—­Colonel is a great believer in marriage—­” Her voice died away into murmurs.  Her long, thin throat contracted in a visible swallow.