Thereupon the iron had entered into Mrs. Pumpelly’s soul and her life had become wormwood and gall, ashes in her mouth and all the rest of it.  She proposed to get even with the cat at the very first chance, but somehow the chance never seemed to come.  She hated to be living on the same street with that kind of nasty person.  And who was this Wells woman?  Her husband never did a thing except play croquet or something at a club!  He probably was a drunkard—­and a roo-ay.  Mrs. Pumpelly soon convinced herself that Mrs. Wells also must be a very undesirable, if not hopelessly immoral lady.  Anyhow, she made up her mind that she would certainly take nothing further from her.  Even if Mrs. Wells should have a change of heart and see fit to call, she just wouldn’t return it!  So when she rolled up in the diminutive car and found Mrs. Wells’ lumbering limousine blocking the doorway she was simply furious.

“Make that man move along!” she directed, and Jules honked and honked, but the limousine did not budge.

Then Mrs. Pumpelly gave way to a fit of indignation that would have done her proud even in Athens, Ohio.  Fire-breathing, she descended from her car and, approaching the limousine, told the imperturbable chauffeur that even if he did work for Mrs. Rutherford Wells, Mrs. Rutherford Wells was no better than anybody else, and that gave him no right to block up the whole street.  She spoke loudly, emphatically, angrily, and right in the middle of it the chauffeur, who had not deigned to look in her direction, slyly pressed the electric button of his horn and caused it to emit a low scornful grunt.  Then a footman opened the door of the Wells mansion and Mrs. Rutherford Wells herself came down the steps, and Mrs. Pumpelly told her to her face exactly what she thought of her and ordered her to move her car along so her own could get in front of the vestibule.

Mrs. Wells ignored her.  Deliberately—­and as if there were no such person as Mrs. Pumpelly upon the sidewalk—­she stepped into her motor and, the chauffeur having adjusted the robe, she remarked in a casual, almost indifferent manner that nevertheless made Mrs. Pumpelly squirm, “Go to Mr. Hepplewhite’s, William.  Pay no attention to that woman.  If she makes any further disturbance call a policeman.”

And the limousine rolled away with a sneer at Mrs. Pumpelly from the exhaust.  More than one king has been dethroned for far less cause!

* * * * *

“You telephone Mr. Edgerton,” she almost shrieked at Simmons, the butler, “that he should come right up here as fast as he can.  I’ve got to see him at once!”

“Very good, madam,” answered Simmons obsequiously.

And without more ado, in less than forty minutes, the distinguished Mr. Wilfred Edgerton, of Edgerton & Edgerton, attorneys for Cuban Crucible and hence alert to obey the behests of the wives of the officers thereof, had deposited his tall silk hat on the marble Renaissance table in the front hall and was entering Mrs. Pumpelly’s Louis Quinze drawing-room with the air of a Sir Walter Raleigh approaching his Queen Elizabeth.