Miss Cissie Parmenter strolled down the broad stairs at Holiday Knoll, looking neither to the left nor the right. She was freshly painted with considerable taste, and arrayed with such precision and perfection that she would have suggested a handsome and expensive species of toy but for the sleepy and dangerous eyes which were as profoundly human and natural as the rest of her was delicately artificial. In their depths one could surmise volcanic possibilities. She was small, daintily made, and languid of movement, not without a hint of feline strength. Though her regard was apparently fixed upon far-away things, she had at once observed the man in the library.

"You're Mr. Scott, aren't you?" she said in a cool and lazy voice, advancing with hand outstretched.

"Yes." He took the hand. "And you're Miss Parmenter?"

"Yes; I'm Cissie. You know, Mr. Scott, I'm a social outcast for the afternoon."

"It wouldn't strike one as having weighed on your spirits."

"Buoyed up by the prospect of meeting you. Aren't you appalled at having a total stranger on your hands all afternoon?"

"On the contrary, I'm thrilled," he returned with the conventional answer.

She let her slow gaze sweep over him estimatingly. "You're not a bit like I figured out," she murmured, having decided upon the direct-personality gambit, as promising the best and promptest returns.

"No? Well, youth survives these disappointments."

"Fishing," she retorted. "No; I shan't tell you how much nicer you are than the prospectus. What are you going to do with me?"

"Whatever you permit."

"Oh, have a care of yourself! That might take you far. But I can decide better after eating. Where do we go for that?"

"How would the Ritz do?"

"Music to my ears. Can you get a cocktail there?"

"I think it might be managed, confidentially."

"That'll do nicely for a starter."

"A starter? I see. And for continuance?"

"I'm feeling a little down to-day. What would you prescribe?"

"I've heard that that medicine with bubbles in it possesses a self-raising quality."

"From now on you're my family physician. But I'm sinking rapidly."

He contemplated her curiously. "Believe me, Miss Parmenter, I don't want to spoil sport before it begins, but—how old are you?"

"Twenty-one. Beyond the age of consent—for drinks. It's all right; I know how to say 'when' to a bottle. And I'm not so old but that you might call me Cissie if you like. I think it would help pass the time."

"And as I'm still short of forty, I suppose, on the same principle, you'd better call me Cary."

"How nicely you play back! And Pat told me you were slow; nice, but slow."

At the mention of Pat's name a little surge of anger and contempt went through Scott's veins. But he answered lightly: "I'm a plodding old party, it's true. But I do my best. Now, as to practical details I'm afraid that the Ritz would draw the line at champagne."

"That's a blow."

"But I bethink me that there's a locker at a Country Club up toward the frozen north that I have entry to, if that isn't too far."

"If you'd said Albany it wouldn't be too far for me."

"What would be too far for you, Cissie?"

She gave him her eyes, alight with gleams of mirth and appreciation. "Don't let me stop you," she laughed. "There are days when my brakes need re-lining. Let's go!"

Throughout the drive, Cissie alternated between urging her companion to put more speed on the car, and light, slangy, clever, suggestive chatter about theatres, athletics, movies, and the sort of thing that fills the society columns of the daily newspapers. At the luncheon she drank two cocktails, half of the pint of champagne which was all that she would permit to be provided, and then declared herself fit for life again. "What'll we do now?" was her way of putting it.

"What time do they expect you back?"

"Five sharp. So, of course, I shan't be there. I never am. Play golf, Mr. Scott?"

"Just an average game, Miss Parmenter."

"All right, Cary; I'll take you on for twenty on our handicaps."

"You bet fairly high, don't you?"

"Yes; and what's more, I pay up when I lose. If the bet isn't good enough, just to make it more interesting, I'll throw in the odds of a kiss if you win. Do you know anyone here who'd loan me a pair of shoes?"

That matter being arranged, Cissie, playing with cool precision, proceeded to beat him by three and one.

"Now I'll have a highball, please, and we'll trail for home," she directed. "We won't be more than an hour late if you hit it up with that hearse you drive. Are you going to claim the loser's end of the purse?"

"The loser's? Oh, I see. But I thought that was the winner's."

"Don't fall all over yourself with unbridled enthusiasm," she jeered. "You've got to give three more rousing cheers than that to wake me up."

"Just at present I'm busy with the car. But to-night is coming. What dances will you give me?"

"The lucky numbers. Seven and Eleven. Aren't you flattered?"

"Almost as much flattered as I am delighted."

She twisted in her seat to confront him. "Cary Scott, you're a good bluffer, but it doesn't go with me. You haven't fallen for me one little bit!"

"I? Like an avalanche," he protested. "I find you as charming as you are—startling."

"Ah, that startling stuff; you know what that is, don't you?"

"I'm not sure that I do."

"I'm showing you my line; that's all."

"And now I find you bewildering. Be kind to the stupidity of one who has not yet become fully acclimated to his own amazing country."

"Yes; anyone could tell that you don't fully belong with us. You see, every girl has her special line to show, nowadays."

"Like a commercial traveller?"

"You've said it! It's whatever is supposed to fit her personality best. You go to a character reader—there's a wiz in Carnegie Hall, who lays you out a complete map for twenty-five dollars—and she sizes you up and lays out your line for you."

"Is this line, perhaps, equipped with a hook?"

"Eh? Oh, sure!" Cissie laughed. "Hook and bait. Yes; it's a fish-line, all right."

"And what is your specialty?"

"Haven't I shown it plain enough? It's the lively and risky with just enough restraint to lead 'em on. I'm supposed to have passionate eyes, you know."

Scott laughed aloud. "I like you, Cissie."

"It's about time!" she exclaimed. "You haven't, up to now. And I've been working pretty hard on you."

"That's very shrewd of you. I mean it, this time. It's realler than the thing we've been playing at."

"Good man! It's mutual. You can have the kiss if you want it, just for liking."

"But you'd rather I wouldn't."

"And that's very shrewd of you. You're right; I like you that much ... Cary, I don't wonder Pat's batty over you."

"Pat? You're quite wrong."

"And I'm wrong in thinking you're crazy about her, I suppose."

"Equally."

"Pat's line," remarked the astute Miss Parmenter thoughtfully, "is the Minnesota shift up to date; all tomboy, you're-another, take-it-or-leave-it one minute, and the next you know she's a clinging vine and you're it. She can do it with those wonderful eyes and that throaty, croaky, heart-breaky voice of hers. It knocks the boys cold. And I'd think it would be just the line to catch an old—a man of the world like——"

"An old man like you, you started to say," prompted Scott. "No occasion for embarrassment on my account."

"Don't fool yourself by thinking that age makes such a difference to girls, these days. They think it does at Pat's age, but a couple of years more makes a big diff. Most of the boys I used to be crazy about look like sapheads to me now. They're too easy. There's more pep in experience; and," remarked the youthful philosopher, "the bigger they are, the harder they fall. Pat's a pretty wise kid, at that. She isn't all 'petite gamine.'"

"Evidently she has no secrets from you," said Scott, vexed.

"We're b.f.'s, you know. I suppose you think Dirty Me for trying to cut in on her with you."

"I don't know that I'd thought of it at all."

"Now we're very old and stately," said the girl with mischievous alarm. "It makes us coldly dignified to be teased.... Heavens! Are we home already? Good-bye, and thank you for a corking afternoon. See you to-night."

She waved him a farewell, but reappeared as his car came back around the curve at the side of the house. "Don't forget the lucky numbers, Cary," she called, in her high, sweet drawl.

"No danger," he answered, wondering just why she had come back to say that.

He understood when, in the hallway back of Cissie, he caught sight of Pat's surprised and frowning face.

"The little devil!" he chuckled. But, he thought the moment after, was Cissie playing her own game, or Pat's?

Within doors Pat rushed the tardy guest upstairs and followed into her room.

"Do hustle," she said crossly. "You're gumming the game."

"Hustle is my ancestral name," stated Cissie. "I'm right in high to-day."

"I'll bet a bet you are," was the reply with a tinge of bitterness in it.

Miss Parmenter's pleasantly decorated face took on an expression of innocent frankness. "What ever made you tell me that your Scottie man was slow? I think he's a winner. I've fallen for him like—like an avalanche."

"You can have him. But where do you get that Cary stuff you were working?"

"Start a bath for me, will you, Mike? Oh, that. He asked me to. We're awful pals. Just like that." She crooked her two perfectly manicured little fingers together

Pat grunted.

"You know you told me to go as far as I liked, dee-rie."

"Well, you did, didn't you?"

"Oh, not half," cooed the b.f. "He's going to drive me back home after the wedding."

"That won't break up my summer!" shouted Pat, from the bathroom, above the seethe of the foaming faucets.

She felt a definite sense of injury, not against Cissie so much as against Mr. Scott, who represented, to her annoyed mind, a defection on the part of her own presumptive property. Had Cissie really lured his interest away? Or had he lost interest in her, Pat, anyway? Upon this point her misgivings were allayed by calling to mind the tremulous hand with which he had recovered that sheet of music. Yet he had resisted the lure of her touch, the mute offer of her lips. Accustomed to the potency of physical appeal upon men, she felt at a loss. True, what had drawn her to Scott had been his enjoyment of that in her which underlay the surface, his capacity for appreciating in her qualities and potentialities which she herself felt only dimly and doubtfully when the influence of his presence was remote. Yet that he should find her attractive on this side, while holding himself under restraint against her more direct advances, puzzled and discouraged her. Especially if he were, in fact, embarking upon a whirl with Cissie Parmenter. Pat knew Cissie's methods—or thought she did. In truth she decidedly underestimated the b.f.'s acumen as well as her adaptability to various kinds of camaraderie.

Pat determined to make herself extra-specially attractive to Mr. Scott that evening at the dance.

Unfortunately to be extra-specially or even ordinarily attractive to a person, you must first draw that person within the radius of attraction. To Pat's discomfiture Mr. Scott evinced no interest whatsoever in her; barely any cognisance of her existence and presence at the dance. With the other girls in the wedding party he had early dances, to their obvious satisfaction, for in some occult way, though not of the party proper, he had come to be a central figure of interest. He was deemed "unusual," fascinating, "relieving"—a word which had recently come much into vogue in that set. Cissie Parmenter had been exploiting him.

The party was notable for its pretty girls; but Pat, though on the score of actual beauty she was far behind in the running, glowed among them with her dark, exotic radiance, like a flame among flowers. She was beset with admirers competing for such fractions of dances as they could get. Every man in the room had been a suppliant except Mr. Scott. In that atmosphere of adulation Pat seemed to become more quiveringly, femininely, alluringly alive. She exhaled delight, like a perfume of her ardent soul. Yet in all the excitement of her pleasures, she was waiting and hoping and manoeuvring.... Twice Cary Scott had danced with Dee; three times with Connie, who was her old, lovely, wistful self for the occasion; Pat didn't feel any too comfortable about that. Once he had danced with Cissie, and once sat out with her on the piazza; and Pat didn't feel at all comfortable about that. Here it was the twelfth dance and he hadn't come near her. Between two numbers she caught sight of him just outside a door, and then and there deserted a lamenting partner.

"Mister Scott!"

He turned, and, in spite of himself, felt his breath quicken. She was so superb in the sure luxuriance of her youth; so appealing in the poise of her body, the turn of her head.

"Having a good time?" he asked courteously.

"Gorgeous!" she said mechanically, "Who you taking in to supper?"

"Your very charming little friend, Miss Parmenter."

"Oh!" said Pat. "That's terribly nice of you. If it weren't for you," she added viciously, "I'm afraid Cissie'd be having a dull time."

"I haven't noticed that she's had many dull moments," he answered, smiling slightly.

Pat stamped her foot. "Then you've been watching her all the time. I think you might have——" She choked a little.

"Night air too much for you, Pat?" he inquired solicitously.

"No; it isn't.... Aren't you going to ask me for a dance, Mr. Scott? You didn't last night, either."

"Surely your programme is already full to overflowing."

"It is. But I might do some shifty work with it."

"Thoughtful of you. But you would doubtless find it more amusing to sit out, or perhaps I should say stand out, the later dances in some remote nook with some attractive youth." He was speaking quite slowly and softly. "I might even say ... any attractive youth."

She moved closer to him, with puzzled eagerness in her eyes. "Won't you please tell me what you mean?"

"Consult your memory," he suggested. "Surely it will go back for twenty-four hours."

Illumination came to her. "Was it you who came around the corner last night?"

"It was."

Pat's eyes fell. But there was a light in them which he would have found hard to interpret, harder than he thought her next plaintive, exculpatory words: "It's been so long since anyone has petted me."

"And you require a certain amount of petting to keep you up to form," he remarked with cold contempt.

"You've got the meanest way of speaking," she muttered, before making direct response. "Well, if nobody ever pets you, you get to feeling like a social leper; as if nobody cared about you. That's a ghastly feeling."

"I'm sure you're quite competent to guard yourself against it."

"Well, you wouldn't pet me," she said very low, "when you'd hurt my feelings. In the music room."

"How very remiss of me!"

Her attitude changed. Her boyish shoulders straightened. Her firm little chin went up. "How much did you see last night?"

"Sufficient to suggest that I was in the way."

"Were Monty and I clinched?"

"Quite so."

"And you went on right away?"

"Naturally."

"If you had stayed," she said calmly, "you might have been of some use. Monty was pickled. He was just going to crash when I grabbed him."

"Is that true, Pat?"

She met his searching look with unwavering eyes, her nostrils wide with pride. "Do you think I'm so afraid of you—or of anyone—that I'd lie about it?"

To look at her and disbelieve was impossible.

"Besides," she added, her voice breaking a little in self-pity, "I told you I was through with that necking game."

"How do you want me to apologise, little Pat?"

Her unerring instinct for the charming, the compelling move inspired her. "I don't want you to apologise. I want you to dance with me."

"Any and all that you'll give me—and with all gratitude and contrition."

"I'll filch out two; the fifteenth and the fifth extra. You must be watching. And—about supper—couldn't you?"

"No. Not possibly. How could I?"

She smiled, ruefully yet with a shining quality in her disappointment. "Of course you couldn't. It wouldn't be you if you did. I don't care—now."

Until the fifteenth number Scott did not return to the ballroom but wandered outside in dreamy and restless expectation. What he expected, he could not have told. He was conscious chiefly of an enormous relief in the discovery that Pat had not gone back on her good resolutions. But this was only part of what he felt. The callowest sophomore could hardly have found himself more eager or less certain of his ground, than did Cary Scott, man of ripened wisdom and wide experience of women though he was, as he entered to claim his appointment.

"But I tell you, Monty," Pat was saying to a tall and particularly handsome youth who stood before her, programme in hand and a look of almost ludicrous disappointment on his face, "you've made a mistake. You've mixed your dates with cocktails."

"I told you last night I'd stay off it," muttered the youth, "and I've done it. And now you're throwing me down."

"Oh, come around later," said Pat carelessly. She slipped into Scott's arms, whispering:

"Don't let anyone cut in." After a few turns she continued: "Do you know it's ever and ever so long since we've had a dance together."

"It might be a thousand years in its effect on you. You were almost a little girl then and I—what was it you called me?—your wise and guiding friend."

"Aren't you that now? You must always be," she returned quickly. "And for me only. Do you like Cissie, Mr. Scott?"

"Immensely. She's charming."

"Better than me?" challenged Pat.

In the measure of the dance he caught her close to him for a moment and felt the little, excited access of laughter which ran through her body like a tearless sob. "What do you think?" he queried.

Her cheek fluttered against his. "Then that's all right," she breathed.

"You dear!" whispered Scott. He felt himself losing his head; told himself that this was inexcusable foolishness, unfair, unworthy, sterile trifling with evil chance. Yet he lacked the force to draw back.

"Would you mind very much," asked Pat deprecatingly after a pause, "if I renigged on the fifth extra?"

"Indeed I should! Unless"—he tried for a light tone—"there's some special reason for it, such as that you don't want to give it to me."

"Oh, I want to terribly. But I'm in such a mix-up and that dance would straighten me out ... I thought perhaps you'd wait and take me home. I'm going quite early; about three. Will you?"

"Yes."

"We'll walk through the lawns; it's only three minutes. Watch out for my signal."

She was giving him orders as one with a proprietary claim. Scott thrilled to it. He would not let himself think to what it was leading. His mind was absorbed in the delight of her, that dark radiance of personality, the sweet compulsion of her charm. He would have waited all night, though a little time before he had thought himself beginning to be bored. It did not seem long when he saw her coming toward him, her wrap over her arm.

"Quick!" she directed. "Or there'll be a howl about my leaving. I'm not even going to say good-night."

Then they were in the autumn-spiced darkness together, her arm linked in his. It seemed quite natural that her fingers should slip into and twine themselves about his palm.

"Isn't it a grand little world!" she chuckled softly. "I've had such fun to-night."

"You're a wonderful little Pat," he replied unsteadily.

"D'you really think I'm wonderful? Sometimes I think so myself. Other times"—she hunched her shoulders in a gesture peculiar to her—"I think I'm just like everyone else."

"Like no one else in the world."

"Because no two people are alike, of course. I'd hate to be exactly somebody's twin.... You're that way, too. You don't remind me of anyone I've ever seen. Most men do."

They had come to a gate which resisted Pat's attempt, being locked. "Oh, very well!" she said, addressing it, "I'll just climb you."

She attained the top, agile as a cat. But in getting down she tore her frock. "Oh, hell!" she cried lamentably. "Are you shocked, Mr. Scott? You don't like me to swear, do you?"

"I like you to be your very self, Pat."

"It's easy to be that with you. You're an easy person to be with," she meditated.

She stopped under the shelter of a small arbour spanning one of the sideyard paths of Holiday Knoll. Clematis in full glory covered it. The faint, rich odour of its late blossoming, dewy and fresh and virginal as if the aging year, after all its fecund maternity of summer, had again put forth its claim to imperishable maidenhood in the blooms, enveloped them. She turned upon him the slant challenge of her eyes from beneath the clouding mass of hair.

"Do you truly like me," she wheedled, "better than Cissie?"

As if the words were torn from the depths of him and forced through his constricted throat, he answered:

"I'm mad about you."

"Oh-h-h-h-h," she crooned, and there was both dismay and delight in the sound. "I didn't want you to say that."

"I didn't want to say it," he muttered. "I didn't mean to say it."

He stared intently before him; his brain felt numb. There was an appalled sense of inner catastrophe, wholly unforeseen, inherent in the impossible situation.

"Oh, why did you have to go and say it?" she wailed in childish resentment. "It spoils everything."

He made no reply. Her intonation changed, became daring and seductive. "It's just a—a—sort of fatherly interest, isn't it?"

"No."

"Now you're angry. But it ought to be."

"Do you want it to be?"

"No, I want it to be—as it is. Yet I don't."

He gathered himself together. "I'm sorry, little Pat. Suppose we agree to forget it."

"I won't," she mutinied. "I don't want to forget it."

"I do," he said moodily.

"Then I won't let you."

Slowly she lifted her hands and held them out to him. The finger tips were icy cold to his clasp. He could hear her quick, unsteady breathing.

"Pat! Little Pat!" he whispered.

A smile blossomed upon her curved mouth, tender, tremulous, persuasive. She swayed forward, lifting her face, half closing her eyes.

With the gasp of a man whose last strength of restraint is shattered, he enfolded her, crushing his lips down upon hers.

Only the one long, slow kiss in the breathless silence, and all the world forgotten in its ecstasy.

Then Pat pressed herself gently back from him, looked eagerly, curiously, triumphantly into his face, and stood clear.

"My God, Pat!" he groaned. "I didn't mean to do that."

"I did," she said.

From the roses drooping below her breast she detached a bud, crushed to a perfumed splotch of colour in the fierce pressure of their embrace, and held it out to him.

"Keepsake," she breathed. "It's red, red, red. It's the colour of life. My colour. Pat's colour. Good-night, Mr. Scott."

"Mister" Scott! After that fusion of lips and longings.