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There was knock at the door and, on invitation, the tall and stately Mrs. Helen Davies came in, frilled and ruffled for the night. She found the dainty, little guest boudoir in green tinted dimness. Gail had turned down all the lights in the room except the green lamps under the canopy, and she sat on the divan, with her brown hair rippling about her shoulders, her knees clasped in her arms, and her dainty little boudoir slippers peeping from her flowing pink negligee, while the dim green light, suited to her present sombre reflections, only enhanced the clear pink of her complexion. Mrs. Davies sat down in front of her.

“Mr. Clemmens proposed to you to-night,” she charged, gleaning that fact from experienced observation.

Gail nodded her head.

“I hope you did not accept him.”

The brown ripples shook sidewise.

“I was quite certain that you would not,” and the older woman’s tone was one of distinct relief. “In fact, I did not see how you could. The young man is in no degree a match for you.”