Whatever Delilah Jeliffe might lack, it was not originality.  The apartment which she chose for her winter in Washington was like any other apartment when she went into it, but the changes which she made—­the things which she added and the things which she took away, stamped it at once with her own individuality.

The peacock screen before the fireplace, the cushions of sapphire and emerald and old gold on the couch, the mantel swept of all ornament except a seven-branched candlestick; these created the first impression.  Then one’s eyes went to an antique table on which a crystal ball, upborne by three bronze monkeys, seemed to gather to itself mysteriously all the glow of firelight and candlelight and rich color.  At the other end of the table was a low bowl, filled always with small saffron-hued roses.

In this room, one morning, late in Lent, Leila Dick sat, looking as out of place as an English daisy in a tropical jungle.

Leila did not like the drawn curtains and the dimness.  Outside the sun was shining, gloriously, and the sky was a deep and lovely blue.

She was glad when Lilah sent for her.

“You are to come right to her room,” the maid announced.

“Heavens, child,” said the Delilah-beauty, who was combing her hair, “I didn’t promise to be up with the birds.”

“The birds were up long ago,” Leila perched herself on an old English love-seat.  “We’re to have lunch before we go to Fort Myer, and it is almost one now.”

Lilah yawned, “Is it?” and went on combing her hair with the air of one who has hours before her.  She wore a silken negligee of flamingo red which matched her surroundings, for this room was as flaming as the other was subdued.  Yet the effect was not that of crude color; it was, rather, that of color intensified deliberately to produce a contrast.  Delilah’s bedroom was high noon under a blazing sun, the sitting-room was midnight under the stars.

With her black hair at last twisted into wonderful coils, Delilah surveyed her face reflectively in the mirror, and having decided that she needed no further aid from the small jars on her dressing table, she turned to her friend.

“What shall I wear, Leila?”

“If I told you,” was the calm response, “you wouldn’t wear it.”

Delilah laughed.  “No, I wouldn’t.  I simply have to think such things out for myself.  But I meant what kind of clothes—­dress up or motor things?”

“Porter will take us out in his car.  You’ll need your heavy coat, and something good-looking underneath, for lunch, you know.”

“Is Mary Ballard going?”

“Of course.  We shouldn’t get Porter’s car if she weren’t.”

“Mary wasn’t with us the day we had tea with him in the Park.”

“No, but she was asked.  Porter never leaves her out.”

“Are they engaged?”

“No, Mary won’t be.”

“She’ll never get a better chance,” Delilah reflected.  “She isn’t pretty, and she’s rather old style.”