I had not met the men, but they were of the usual man-about-town type, “Marcia’s ex-es” somebody, I think the mannish Carew girl, amusingly called them.  Among them Arthur Colton, married only a year, who already boasted that he was living “the simple double life.”  Besides the Laidlaws there were the Walsenberg woman, twice a grass widow and still hopeful, and the Da Costa debutante who looked as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, giggled constantly and said things which she fondly hoped to be devilish, but which were only absurd.  This was the girl, I think, whom Jerry had described as having only five adjectives, all of which she used every minute.  Channing Lloyd, a glass of champagne at his elbow, laughed gruffly and filled the room with tobacco smoke.  I listened.  Small talk, banalities, bits of narrow glimpses of narrow pursuits.  I had to admit that Marcia quite dominated this circle, and I understood why.  Shallow as she was, she was the only one with the possible exception of Phil Laidlaw who gave any evidence of having done any thinking at all.  I might have known as I listened that her conversation had a purpose.

“I claim that obedience to the will of man,” Marcia was saying, “has robbed woman of all initiative, all incentive to achievement, all creative faculty, and that only by renouncing man and all his works will she ever be his equal.”

“Why don’t you renounce ’em then, Marcia?” roared Lloyd, amid laughter.

“I know at least one that I could renounce,’ said Marcia, smiling as she lighted a cigarette.

“Me?  You couldn’t,” he returned.  “You’ve tried, you know, but you’ve got to admit that I’m positively in’spensible to you.”

“Do be quiet, Chan.  You’re idiotic.  I’m quite serious.”

“You’re always serious, but you never mean what you say.”

“Oh, don’t I?”

“No,” he grunted over his glass.

She glanced at him for a moment and their eyes met, hers falling first.  Then she turned away.  I think that the man’s attraction for her was nothing less than his sheer bestiality.

“I believe in a splendid unconventional morality,” she went on, musing with half-closed eyes over the ash of her cigarette.  “After awhile you men will understand what it means.”

“Not I,” said Lloyd, who was drinking more than he needed.  “If you say that immorality is conventional I’ll agree with you, my dear, but morality—­” and he drank some champagne, “morality! what rot!”

The others laughed, I’ll admit, more at, than with him.  But the conversation was sickening enough.  I saw Jerry and Una shake hands and come forward and Marcia immediately turned toward them.  The end of the battle was not yet, for as Una nodded in the general direction of the group in passing, Marcia spoke her name.

“Ah, Una dear.  You’re going?”

“I must,” with a glance at her wrist watch.  “It’s getting late.”

“What a pity.  I wanted to talk to you—­about the Mission.”