Wilbur patted his wife’s shoulder comfortingly.  “Never mind, dear,” he said, “when she gets her chance to do her to-morrow’s stunt at your club, she will be all right.”

Margaret shivered a little.  She had dared say nothing to Martha about that “stunt.”  Was it possible that she was making a horrible mistake?

The next day, Martha was still sulky but she did not, as Margaret feared, announce her intention of returning at once to New York.  Margaret said quite casually that she had invited a few of the brightest and most interesting people in Fairbridge to meet her that afternoon and Martha became curious, although still resentful, and made no motion to leave.  She, however, resolved to make no further mistakes as to costume, and just as the first tide of the Zenith Club broke over Margaret’s threshold, she appeared clad in one of her South Mordan, Illinois, gowns.  It was one which she had tucked into her trunk in view of foul weather.  It was a hideous thing made from two old gowns.  It had a garish blue tunic reaching well below the hips and a black skirt bordered with blue.  Martha had had it made herself from a pattern after long study of the fashion plates in a Sunday newspaper and the result, although startling, still half convinced her.  It was only after she had seen all the members of the Zenith Club seated and had gazed at their costumes, that she realised that she had made a worse mistake than that of the night before.  To begin with, the day was very warm and her gown heavy and clumsy.  The other ladies were arrayed in lovely lingeries or light silks and laces.  The Zenith Club was exceedingly well dressed on that day.  Martha sat in her place beside her hostess and her face looked like a sulky child’s.  Her eye-lids were swollen, her pouting lips dropped at the corners.  She stiffened her chin until it became double.  Margaret was inwardly perturbed but she concealed it.  The programme went on with the inevitable singing by Miss MacDonald and Mrs. Wells, the playing by Mrs. Jack Evarts, the recitation by Sally Anderson.  Margaret had not ventured to omit those features.  Then, Mrs. Sturtevant read in a trembling voice a paper on Emerson.  Then Margaret sprang her mines.  She rose and surveyed her audience with smiling impressiveness.  “Ladies,” she said, and there was an immediate hush, “Ladies, I have the pleasure, the exceeding pleasure of presenting you to my guest, Miss Martha Wallingford, the author of Hearts Astray.  She will now speak briefly to you upon her motive in writing and her method of work.”  There was a soft clapping of hands.  Margaret sat down.  She was quite pale.  Annie Eustace regarded her wonderingly.  What had happened to her dear Margaret?

The people waited.  Everybody stared at Miss Martha Wallingford who had written that great seller, Hearts Astray.  Martha Wallingford sat perfectly still.  Her eyes were so downcast that they gave the appearance of being closed.  Her pretty face looked red and swollen.  Everybody waited.  She sat absolutely still and made no sign except that of her obstinate face of negation.  Margaret bent over her and whispered.  Martha did not even do her the grace of a shake of the head.