knuckles, and, around her throat, a chain of crystal beads that hung almost to her waist.
Intercepting the long look I gave the girl, Neith Boyce smiled.
Are you, too, interested in Mahalah? she asked.
I am interested in the effect she is making.
She always makes an effect, Neith rejoined.
Who is she?
An orphan. Her father left her a little money, which she is spending at the Art Students' League, trying to learn to draw. Her only real talents are obvious. She knows how to dress herself and she knows how to attract men. Your friend seems to like her.
He does, indeed.
Mahalah comes here often and always spends the evening in a corner with some man. She seems to prefer married men. Is your friend married?
No.
A fat woman in a grey crêpe dress, embroidered in steel beads, standing in the centre of the room, shifted my attention.
Who is that? I asked.
That is Miss Gladys Waine, replied Neith. She is the wife of Horace Arlington, the sculptor.
Miss and a wife? What is she then, herself?
Nothing. She does not write, or paint, or compose. She isn't an actress. She is nothing but a wife, but she insists on retaining her individuality and her name. If any one addresses her as Mrs.
