IN WHICH A LIE IS THE BETTER PART OF TRUTH At breakfast Connie did not appear--she had seemed to be asleep when he went into his dressing-room--and it was not until one o'clock that he had a chance to speak to her again.

Luncheon was already on the table when he entered the dining-room, and Connie, in a green velvet gown and a little green velvet hat ornamented by a twinkling aigrette, was standing by the window looking out restlessly at the falling snow.

As he came in she went over to the table and began making tea with nervous hands.

She was apparently in the highest spirits, and while she fumbled noisily with the cups and saucers she rambled on in her expressionless voice with tinkling interludes of her shrill, falsetto laughter.

As he watched her in shamed silence he remembered with astonishment that it had taken him almost ten years to find out that Connie was vulgar.