“I’m not exactly a nonogenarian,” retorted he.

“But usually your face—­in spite of its smoothness and no wrinkles—­has a kind of an old young—­or do I mean young old?—­look.  You’ve led such a serious life.”

“Um.  That’s the devil of it.”

“You’re looking particularly young to-night.”

“Same to you, Urse.”

“No, I’m not bad for thirty-four.  People half believe me when I say I’m twenty-nine.”  She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders.  “I’ve still got my skin.”

“And a mighty good one it is.  Best I ever saw—­except one.”

She reflected a moment, then smiled.  “I know it isn’t Josephine’s.  Hers is good but not notable.  Eyes and teeth are her strongholds.  I suppose it’s—­the other lady’s.”

“Exactly.”

“I mean the one in Jersey City.”

He went on brushing his hair with not a glance at the bomb she had exploded under his very nose.

“You’re a cool one,” she said admiringly.

“Cool?”

“I thought you’d jump.  I’m sure you never dreamed I knew.”

He slid into his white waistcoat and began to button it.

“Though you might know I’d find out,” she went on, “when everyone’s talking.”

“Everyone’s always talking,” said he indifferently.

“And they rattle on to beat the band when they get a chance at a man like you.  Do you know what they’re saying?”

“Certainly.  Loosen these straps in the back of my waistcoat—­the upper ones, won’t you?”

[Illustration:  “She glanced complacently down at her softly glistening shoulders.”]

As she fussed with the buckles she said:  “But you don’t know that they say you’re going to pieces—­neglecting your cases—­keeping away from your office—­wasting about half of your day with your lady love.  They say that you have gone stark mad—­that you are rushing to ruin.”

“A little looser.  That’s better.  Thanks.”

“And everyone’s wondering when Josephine will hear and go on the rampage.  She’s so proud and so stuck on herself that they’re betting she’ll give you the bounce.”

“Well—­” getting into his coat—­“you’d delight in that.  For you don’t like her.”

“Oh—­so—­so,” replied Ursula.  “She’s all right, as women go.  You know we women don’t ever think any too well of each other.  We’re ‘on.’  Now, I’m frank to admit I’m not worth the powder to blow me up.  I can’t do anything worth doing.  I don’t know anything worth knowing—­except how to dress and make a fool of an occasional man.  I’m not a good house-keeper, nor a good wife—­and I’d as lief go to jail for two years as have a baby.  But I admit I’m n. g.  Most women are as poor excuses as I am, yet they think they’re grand!”

Norman, standing before his sister and smiling mysteriously, said:  “My dear Urse, let me give you a great truth in a sentence.  The value of anything is not its value to itself or in itself, but its value to some one else.  A woman—­even as incompetent a person as you——­”