“The Land of Nod,” said the bride, languidly flirting the leaf of a palm.  “I suppose you’ve been there, of course?”

“Not lately,” said Eve, absolutely unstaggered.  “Don’t you think the apple-sauce they serve over there is execrable?  I rather like that mulberry-leaf tunic effect, dear; but, of course, the real fig goods are not to be had over there.  Come over behind this lilac-bush while the gentlemen split a celery tonic.  I think the caterpillar-holes have made your dress open a little in the back.”

So, then and there—­according to the records—­was the alliance formed by the only two who’s-who ladies in the world.  Then it was agreed that woman should forever remain as clear as a pane of glass—­though glass was yet to be discovered—­to other women, and that she should palm herself off on man as a mystery.

Barbara seemed to hesitate.

“Really, Nevada,” she said, with a little show of embarrassment, “you shouldn’t have insisted on my opening this.  I—­I’m sure it wasn’t meant for any one else to know.”

Nevada forgot her gloves for a moment.

“Then read it aloud,” she said.  “Since you’ve already read it, what’s the difference?  If Mr. Warren has written to me something that any one else oughtn’t to know, that is all the more reason why everybody should know it.”

“Well,” said Barbara, “this is what it says:  ’Dearest Nevada—­Come to my studio at twelve o’clock to-night.  Do not fail.’” Barbara rose and dropped the note in Nevada’s lap.  “I’m awfully sorry,” she said, “that I knew.  It isn’t like Gilbert.  There must be some mistake.  Just consider that I am ignorant of it, will you, dear?  I must go up-stairs now, I have such a headache.  I’m sure I don’t understand the note.  Perhaps Gilbert has been dining too well, and will explain.  Good night!”

IV

Nevada tiptoed to the hall, and heard Barbara’s door close upstairs.  The bronze clock in the study told the hour of twelve was fifteen minutes away.  She ran swiftly to the front door, and let herself out into the snow-storm.  Gilbert Warren’s studio was six squares away.

By aerial ferry the white, silent forces of the storm attacked the city from beyond the sullen East River.  Already the snow lay a foot deep on the pavements, the drifts heaping themselves like scaling-ladders against the walls of the besieged town.  The Avenue was as quiet as a street in Pompeii.  Cabs now and then skimmed past like white-winged gulls over a moonlit ocean; and less frequent motor-cars—­sustaining the comparison—­hissed through the foaming waves like submarine boats on their jocund, perilous journeys.

Nevada plunged like a wind-driven storm-petrel on her way.  She looked up at the ragged sierras of cloud-capped buildings that rose above the streets, shaded by the night lights and the congealed vapors to gray, drab, ashen, lavender, dun, and cerulean tints.  They were so like the wintry mountains of her Western home that she felt a satisfaction such as the hundred-thousand-dollar house had seldom brought her.