her. Now don't protest, Margaret; I 'm sure I don't blame you. I 'd do it myself if I could make such pretty things with mud and water and those queer little sticks. So all the women would, though they do talk about your going to the fête with Robert Feuardent without any chaperone."
Philip moved uneasily in his chair. What was Mrs. Darius Harden going to say next? he asked himself.
"They say yours is her last scalp, Philippe le bel. How is it? Does it still decorate your highly respected head, or does this Atalanta wear it at her belt? I hope not; keep it firmly on your pate. I 've long had designs on it myself. Do you know that she really is the original Atalanta?"
"I cannot believe her so hard of heart, Mrs. Harden."
"Oh, can't you, just? Well, you'd better. A flint is tender beside her. I know a secret of hers too. Would n't you like to know it? Come, what will you give me to tell you? Now don't say a kiss, like the children, but offer me a good fat bribe, and I will tell you who poses for that lovely girl in her—you know what I mean—her statue—sculpture—that thing she is making out of gray mud."
"The name of the mysterious model? Name
