Hilda was writing in her living-room, under the light of a tall desk lamp.

Bartley recognized the primrose satin gown she had worn that first evening at Lady Walford's.
"I'm so pleased that you think me worth that yellow dress, you know," he said, taking her hand and looking her over admiringly from the toes of her canary slippers to her smoothly parted brown hair.

"Yes, it's very, very pretty.

Every one at Lady Walford's was looking at it." Hilda curtsied.

"Is that why you think it pretty?
I've no need for fine clothes in Mac's play this time, so I can afford a few duddies for myself.