“‘Woman, not lady,’ said I.  ’This is Fifth Avenue.  The ladies of New York are only to be found on Broadway and the Bowery,’

“He looked bewildered but his other discovery interested him the most.

“‘But I say she had paint on her face,’ he repeated.

“‘How could you tell?’ I asked innocently.

“‘It was streaky.  I saw it.’

“‘Possibly.  But it isn’t polite to notice such things.’

“He was silent a moment.  And then:  ’I think the other, the girl, Miss
Van Wyck, is very beautiful.  I think I should like to call on her,
Jack.’

“So you see, Pope, he’s looking up.  Marcia is pretty.  She has been out three seasons but she takes good care of herself.  I’ve never liked her much myself—­a little too studied, you know, and quite ultra-modern.”

“You think Jerry was impressed?” I asked.  There may have been a deeper note of interest in my query than I intended, for Jack burst into laughter.

“There you go.  Your one chick is a duckling now, Pope, old boy.  You’ll have to let him swim if he wants to.  The water’s deep there, too—­very deep.  Marcia knows her way about.”

“It would be a pity if she made a fool of him,” I ventured.

He only smiled.

“It would, of course.  Perhaps she will.  But Jerry’s got to cut his eye teeth.  And he might as well cut ’em on Marcia as anybody else.  But there’s no danger of her marrying him for his money.  She’s almost if not quite as rich as he is.  Half the young bloods in town are after her.  It’s rather flattering to Jerry.  She gave me the impression yesterday of rather liking him.”

“Oh, you called?”

“It was something of a command.  When a girl rolls her eyes the way she did at Jerry and says that he must come to see her, there’s nothing for him but to go.  Besides, they’re neighbors up in the country, you know.  I went with him.  I had an idea what we were in for, but Jerry didn’t, naturally.  She expected us and the butler led the way past the drawing-room into the lady’s particular sanctorum, a smallish room in a wing of the house all hung in black damask, with black velvet rugs and ebony chairs.  Marcia’s blonde, you know, and gets her effects daringly.  I must admit that she looked dazzling, like a bit of Meissen or Sevres in an ormolu cabinet.  She was lolling on a black divan smoking a cigarette and put out her slim fingers languidly.  That’s her pose—­condescension mixed with sudden spasms of intense interest.  She extended her fingers to be kissed—­she had learned that nonsense in Europe somewhere—­and so I kissed ’em.  They were dry, cool, very beautifully tinted, with the nails long and highly polished and had the odor, very faintly, of jasmine.  Jerry kissed ’em too, looking extremely foolish.”

“He would,” I growled.  “The hussy!”

Ballard shook with laughter.

“Oh, that’s rather rough, Pope.  She’s merely the product of a highly sensitized milieu.  Because I don’t like girls of that stamp doesn’t argue her unlikable.  I’ve never heard a word against her except that she has much attention from men.  And with her money and looks that’s natural enough.”