He did not notice what Von Rosen noticed, because he had kept his attention upon the girl, that Annie Eustace had turned deadly pale when Margaret had begun her reading and that Alice Mendon who was seated beside her had slipped an arm around her and quietly and unobtrusively led her out of the room.  Von Rosen thought that Miss Eustace must have turned faint because of the heat, and was conscious of a distinct anxiety and disappointment.  He had, without directly acknowledging it to himself, counted upon walking home with Annie Eustace, but yet he hoped that she might return, that she had not left the home.  When the refreshments were served, he looked for her, but Annie was long since at Alice Mendon’s house in her room.  Alice had hurried her there in her carriage.

“Come home with me, dear,” she had whispered, “and we can have a talk together.  Your people won’t expect you yet.”

Therefore, while Karl von Rosen, who had gone to this annual meeting of the Zenith Club for the sole purpose of walking home with Annie, waited, the girl sat in a sort of dumb and speechless state in Alice Mendon’s room.  It seemed to her like a bad dream.  Alice herself stormed.  She had a high temper, but seldom gave way to it.  Now she did.  There was something about this which roused her utmost powers of indignation.

“It is simply an outrage,” declared Alice, marching up and down the large room, her rich white gown trailing behind her, her chin high.  “I did not think her capable of it.  It is the worst form of thievery in the world, stealing the work of another’s brain.  It is inconceivable that Margaret Edes could have done such a preposterous thing.  I never liked her.  I don’t care if I do admit it, but I never thought she was capable of such an utterly ignoble deed.  It was all that I could do to master myself, not to stand up before them all and denounce her.  Well, her time will come.”

“Alice,” said a ghastly little voice from the stricken figure on the couch, “are you sure?  Am I sure?  Was that from my book?”

“Of course it was from your book.  Why, you know it was from your book, Annie Eustace,” cried Alice and her voice sounded high with anger toward poor Annie herself.

“I hoped that we might be mistaken after all,” said the voice, which had a bewildered quality.  Annie Eustace had a nature which could not readily grasp some of the evil of humanity.  She was in reality dazed before this.  She was ready to believe an untruth rather than the incredible truth.  But Alice Mendon was merciless.  She resolved that Annie should know once for all.

“We are neither of us mistaken,” she said.  “Margaret Edes read a chapter from your book, The Poor Lady, and without stating in so many words that she was the author, she did what was worse.  She made everybody think so.  Annie, she is bad, bad, bad.  Call the spade a spade and face it.  See how black it is.  Margaret Edes has stolen from you your best treasure.”