She swiftly reflected that it was Wednesday night, and
that she might probably expect Frank Catlin. He was a fair
specimen of the Younger Set, a sort of modified Jack Carter, and
called upon her about once a fortnight. No doubt he would hint
darkly as to his riotous living during the past few days and refer
to his diet of bromo-seltzers. He would be slangy, familiar, call
her by her first name as many times as he dared, discuss the last
dance of the Saturday cotillion, and try to make her laugh over
Carter's drunkenness. Blix knew the type. Catlin was hardly out
of college; but the older girls, even the young women of twenty-
five or six, encouraged and petted these youngsters, driven to the
alternative by the absolute dearth of older men.
"I'm not at home, Victorine," announced Blix, intercepting the
maid in the hall. It chanced that it was not Frank Catlin, but
another boy of precisely the same breed; and Blix returned to
Suddhoo, Mrs. Hawksbee, and Mulvaney with a little cuddling
movement of satisfaction.
"There is only one thing I regret about this," she said to Condy
Rivers on the Friday night of that week; "that is, that I never
thought of doing it before." Then suddenly she put up her hand to
shield her eyes, as though from an intense light, turning away her
head abruptly.
"I say, what is it? What--what's the matter?" he exclaimed.
Blix peeped at him fearfully from between her fingers. "He's got
it on," she whispered--"that awful crimson scarf.
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