“Rachel,” said Juliet decisively, next morning, “to-night is the last of my house party, and I refuse to let you off. I’m asking ten or twelve more people out from town. You must spend this evening with my guests, or forfeit my friendship.”

She was smiling as she said it, but her tone was not to be denied.

“If that is the alternative,” Rachel answered, returning the smile with an affectionate look of a sort which neither Louis Lockwood nor Stevens Cathcart nor Dr. Roger Barnes had ever seen on her face—though they had dreamed of it—“of course I shall stay. But I’ll tell you frankly I would rather not.”

“Why not, Rachel?”

“I think you know why not, Mrs. Robeson,” Rachel answered.

“Yes, I know why not,” admitted Juliet. “Girls are queer things, Ray. They defeat their own ends all the time—lots of them. Suzanne and Marie are dear girls, with ever so many nice things about them, but they don’t—they don’t know enough not to pursue, chase, run down, the object of their desires. And, of course, the object, being run down panting, into a corner, dodges, evades, gets out and runs away. Rachel, dear, what are you going to wear to-night?”

“My best frock,” said Rachel, smiling.

“Which is——”

“White.”

“Cut out at the neck?”

“A little.”

“Short in the sleeves?”

“To the elbows. It was my sophomore evening dress.”

“It will be all right, I know. Rachel, wear a white rose in those low black braids of yours—will you?”

“No, I think I won’t,” refused Rachel.

“Why not?”

Rachel did not answer. Into her cool cheek crept a tinge of rebellious, telltale colour.

Juliet studied her a minute in silence, then came up to her and laying both hands on her shoulders looked up into her eyes.

“You try to ‘play fair,’ don’t you, dear?” she said heartily, “whatever the rest may do. And whatever they may do, Rachel Redding, don’t you care. It’s not your fault that they are as jealous of you as girls can be and keep sweet outside. I’d be jealous of you myself if——” She paused, laughing.

“When you grow jealous,” said Rachel, “it will be because you have grown blind. If anybody ever wore his heart on his sleeve—no, not there—but beating sturdily in the right place for one woman in the world it’s——”

“Right you are,” said Anthony Robeson, coming up behind them, “and I hope you may convince her of it. She has no confidence in her own powers.”

Rachel stood looking at them a moment, her dark eyes very bright. “To see you two,” she said slowly at length, “is to believe it all.”

The evening promised to be a gay one. The men of the party had sent to town for many lanterns, flags and decorations of the sort, and had made the porch and lawn the setting for a brilliant scene. A dozen young people had been asked out, and came enthusiastically.

“We’ll wind up with a flourish,” said Anthony in his wife’s ear as they descended the stairs together, “and then we’ll send them all off to-morrow where they’ll cease from troubling. I think it was the best plan in the world, but I’ll be glad to prowl about my beloved home without observing Cathcart scowling at Lockwood, Roger Barnes evading Suzanne, or even my good boy Wayne with that eternal wonder on his face as to why his flat does not look like our Eden.”

“Hush—and don’t look too happy to-morrow, Tony. Oh, here comes Rachel. Isn’t she lovely?”

“Now, watch,” murmured Anthony, his face full of amusement. “It’s as good as the best comedy I ever saw. See Suzanne. She never looked toward Rachel, but don’t tell me she wasn’t aware of the very instant Rachel came upon the porch. I believe she read it in Roger Barnes’s face. I’ll wager ten to one his pulse isn’t countable at the present instant.”

“I don’t blame him,” Juliet answered, smiling at her guests. “She’s my ideal of a girl who won’t hold out a finger to the men.”

“Yes, she’s your sort,” admitted Anthony. “I know what it is—poor fellows—I’ve been through it. Your cold shoulder used to warm up my heart hotter than any other girl’s kindness. Look at the boys now. They can’t jump and run away from the other girls, but they’d like to. And they’re all deadly anxious for fear the others will get the start. Say, Julie, you ought not to have asked those new youngsters down from town. They’ll catch it, sure as fate; they’re at the susceptible age. I see five of them now, all staring at Rachel.”

“You positively mustn’t stay here with me any longer,” whispered Juliet. “Go and devote yourself to her and keep them off for a little.”

“Not on your life,” Anthony returned “She can take care of herself. If I mix up in this fray you’re likely to be husbandless. Lockwood and Roger are getting dangerous, and I’m going to keep on the outskirts where it’s safe.”

They were all upon the lawn—Rachel, unable to help herself, according to Anthony’s intimation, the centre of a group of men who would not give each other a chance—when a stranger appeared upon the edge of the circle of light. He stood watching the scene for a moment—a tall, slender fellow, with a pale face and deep-set eyes. Then he asked somebody to tell Miss Redding that Mr. Huntington would like to speak with her. Rachel, thus summoned, rose, looked about her, caught sight of the stranger, and went swiftly down the lawn. A dozen people, among them all the men who had been the guests of the week, saw the meeting. They observed that the newcomer put out both hands, that his smile was very bright, and that he stood looking down into Miss Redding’s face as if at sight of it he had instantly forgotten everything else in the world.

Rachel, leaving him, came back up the lawn to find her hostess. As she passed it became evident to a good many pairs of sharp eyes that her beauty had received a keen accession from the sweeping over her cheeks of a burning blush—so unusual that they could not fail to take note of it.

Juliet came back down the lawn with Rachel, who presented Mr. Huntington; and presently, without a word of leave-taking to any one else, the two went away down the road.

“Now, who under the heavens was that?” grunted Louis Lockwood in Anthony’s ear, catching his host around the corner of the house.

“Don’t know.”

“Brother, perhaps?”

“Hasn’t any.”

“Relative?”

“Don’t know.”

“Just a messenger, maybe?”

“Give it up.”

“She blushed like anything.”

“Did she? Man she is going to marry, probably.”

“Oh, that can’t be!”

“The lady looks marriageable to me,” observed Anthony, strolling away.

He ran into Cathcart.

“Say, who was that fellow, Tony?” began Stevens.

“Don’t ask me.”

“He looked confoundedly as if he meant to embrace her on the spot.”

“So he did,” agreed Anthony soothingly. “Don’t blame him, do you? He may not have seen her for a month. What condition do you suppose you’d be in if a week should get away from you out of her vicinity?”

“Bother you, Tony—don’t you know who he was?”

“Intimate friend, I should judge.”

“She turned pink as a carnation.”

“Say hollyhock,” suggested Anthony, “or peony. Only a vivid colour could do justice to it.”

“That’s right,” groaned Cathcart. “She never looked like that for any of us.”

“Never,” said Anthony promptly, and got away, chuckling.

“Hold on, there, Robeson, man,” said the voice of Dr. Roger Barnes, and Anthony found himself again held up.

“Come on, old Roger boy,” said his host pleasantly. “We’ll amble down the road a bit and give you a chance to get a grip on yourself. No, I don’t know who he is. I’m all worn out assuring Louis and Steve of that. She did turn red, she did look upset—with joy, I infer. That girl has made more havoc in one short week—playing off all the while, too—than Suzanne and Marie have accomplished in the biggest season they ever knew. And I believe, Roger boy, you’re about the hardest hit of any of them.”

The doctor did not answer. The two had walked away from the house and were marching arm in arm at a good pace down the road.

“She’s as poor as a church mouse,” suggested Anthony.

There was no reply.

“She has a dead weight of a helpless father and mother.”

The doctor put match to a cigar.

“Juliet says her brother died of dissipation in a gambling-house.”

Doctor Barnes began to chew hard on a cigar that he had failed to light.

“But she’s a mighty sweet girl,” said Anthony softly.

“See here, Tony,” the doctor burst out.—“Oh, hang it all—”

“I see,” said his friend, with a hand on his shoulder. “Go ahead, Roger Barnes—there’s nothing in life like it; and the good Lord have mercy on you, for the sort of girl worth caring for doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

“All gone, little girl,” said Anthony jubilantly, as he turned back into the house the next evening, after watching out of sight the big touring-car of Lockwood’s which had carried all his house-party away at once. “They are mighty fine people and I like them all immensely—but—I have enjoyed to the full this speeding the parting guest. And now for my vacation. It begins to-morrow.”

“What shall we do?” asked Juliet, allowing him to draw her into his favourite settle corner.

“Go fishing. If you’ll put up a jolly little—I mean a jolly big—lunch, and array yourself in unspoilable attire, I’ll give you a day’s great sport, whether we catch any fish or not. There’s one fish you’re sure of—he’s always on the end of your line: hooked fast, and resigned to his fate. Juliet, are they really all gone?”

“I’m sure they are.”

“Good Mary McKaim—peace be to her ashes, for she never gets any on the toast—has she gone, too?”

“She’s packing.”

“Rachel safe at home with her presumable fiancÉ?”

“He can’t be her fiancÉ, Tony—”

“That’s what Lockwood said—but I suppose he can, just the same. Rachel away, do you say?”

“Yes. She didn’t come over to-day at all, you know.”

“I noticed it—by the gloom on three stalwart men’s faces. Well, if everybody’s safely out of the way I’m going to commit myself.”

“To what, Tony?”

She was laughing, for he had risen, looked all about him with great anxiety, tiptoed to each door and listened at it, and was now come back to stand before her, smiling down at her and holding out his arms.

“To the statement,” he said, gathering her close and speaking into her upturned rosy face, “that without doubt this is the dearest home in the world, and that you are the sweetest woman who ever has stood or ever will stand here in it.”