Miss Davis replaced the letter with a musing smile.  And the next morning she called up on long distance.  A visit to Bainbridge, she felt, might be quite stimulating. . . .

Observe her, then, on the morning of her arrival having breakfast in bed.  Breakfast in bed is always offered to travellers at the Spence home—­a courtesy based upon the tradition of an age which travelled hard and seldom.  Miss Davis quite approved of the custom.  She had not neglected to bring “matinees” in which she looked most charming.  Negligee became her.  She openly envied Margot Asquith her bedroom receptions.

Young Mrs. Spence, inquiring with true western hospitality, whether the breakfast had been all that could be desired, was conscious of a pang, successfully repressed, at the sight of that matinee.  She saw at once that she had never realized possibilities in this direction.  Her night-gowns (even the new ones) were merely night-gowns and her kimonas were garments which could still be recognized under that name.

“It is rather a duck,” said Mary, reading Desire’s admiring glance.  “Quite French, I think.  But of course, as a bride, you will have oceans of lovely things.  I adore trousseaux.  Perhaps you will show me some of your pretties?” (The bride’s gowns, she admitted, might be passable but what really tells the tale is the underneaths.)

“Oh, with pleasure.”  Desire’s assent was instant and warm.  “I shall love to let you see my things.”

It was risky—­but effective.  Mary’s desire to see the trousseau evaporated on the instant.  No girl would be so eager to show things which were not worth showing.  And Mary was no altruist to rejoice over other people’s Paris follies.

After all, she really knew very little about Benis’s wife.  And you never can tell.  She began to wish that she had brought down with her some very special glories—­things she had decided not to waste on Bainbridge.  Her young hostess had eyes which were coolly, almost humorously, critical.  “Absurd in a girl who simply can’t have any proper criteria!” thought Miss Davis crossly.

“When you are quite rested,” said Desire kindly, “you will find us on the west lawn.  The sun is never too hot there in the morning.”

“Yes—­I remember that.”  The faintest sigh disturbed the laces of Mary’s matinee.  Her faun-like eyes looked wistful.  “But if you do not mind, I think I shall be really lazy—­these colds do leave one so wretched.”

Desire agreed that colds were annoying.  She had not missed the sigh which accompanied Mary’s memory of the west lawn and very naturally misread it.  Mary’s regretful decision to challenge no morning comparison in the sunlight on any lawn was interpreted as regret of a much more tender nature.  Desire’s eyes grew cold and dark with shadow as she left her charming visitor to her wistful rest.