Pendleton was late in arriving at Criss-Cross. He was the last of the party to come in, and he hastened to the quarters, the servant showed him, in the bachelor end over the billiard room in a separate angle of the house.

Once there, he flung off his business suit, plunged through his bath, flourished his safety, cutting himself in his haste (who ever saw a safety that was safe?) and then proceeded to dash into the clothes laid out for him.

"Damn!" he exclaimed forcefully, as a stud that had been insecurely fastened slipped from its hole and retired gracefully under the bureau.

He was down on his knees searching for it when there was a knock on his door.

"Come in!" he shouted, without looking up.

Sheldon Burgoyne entered, stopped a moment with a quizzical smile, and without a word sat down. It was not a time for speech—on his part.

Pendleton presently retrieved the stud and arose, red in the face and angry.

"Why didn't you say something?" he demanded.

"I thought it was a time to be quiet," Burgoyne replied.

Pendleton paused, with the stud half in, and looked at him.

"Hum!" he grunted. "You do have a glimmering of sense, it seems! Why is it, if you drop a stud or a collar button in a room a hundred feet square with only one piece of furniture in the place, the infernal thing will dash under it? Talk of a chicken, or a mule, or a pig—they're not in it with the article under discussion."

"So I have observed!" Burgoyne remarked. "The chap who invents a non-hiding stud will make his everlasting fortune. Of course, the reason for the seemingly peculiar is perfectly evident—it is the law of direction and applied force, that's all. I'll illustrate it on you, if you wish."

"It is not at all necessary!" said Pendleton. "Is every one here, I wonder."

"Yes—you're the laggard—you're generally the laggard.—Why didn't you ever marry, Pendleton?"

"Because I was too much occupied attending to my own business," Pendleton answered.

"I had never observed it!" the other grinned.

"There is nothing peculiar about that—you never observe anything but the ladies."

"Do you criticise my taste?"

"Far be it from me!" Pendleton laughed. "Who are here—do you know?"

"Dorothy Tazewell, Helen Burleston and Marcia Emerson, the men are Steuart Cameron and Warwick Devereux. We all came down on the same train. Stephanie Lorraine, I understand, came yesterday."

"Thank heaven, it is a congenial crowd! How is Miss Emerson—as fascinatingly pretty as ever?"

"More so!—More so!" exclaimed Burgoyne. "She is pushing Stephanie hard for first place," with a bland smile—which Pendleton saw but did not remark.

That he had admired Stephanie Mourraille was no secret, Pendleton knew; and that the admiration had not decreased since she had become Stephanie Lorraine, Society could very readily infer. For his part, he did not care what they inferred; and when he had intimated to Stephanie that he might be coming around her too much, she had put her hand on his shoulder—he could feel it there now—and had asked him, if he objected? Her inference was too plain to miss and he said no more—at the time—though he felt a bit culpable for not doing it.

"How are you and Devereux hitting it?" he asked, to shift the talk.

"Not in time!" smiled Burgoyne,—"not at all in time. It's like a two-step and a schottische."

"Who's doing the schottische?"

"Both—at different periods. Miss Emerson is the only one who is always in step."

"Because she makes the step?" Pendleton laughed. "You rather like to dance, don't you, Burgoyne?"

"It isn't a question of like or dislike. It's a question of what the lady wants—and whom she wants. Devereux is a fool about her, and I think I'm getting dippy too. Nothing serious, Pendleton, nothing serious, I assure you; but she is a mighty attractive girl and we both know it. You understand."

"I understand!" Pendleton answered. "What did I tell you the first day you saw her—at the Club, wasn't it?"

"Yes—the same day that you met Stephanie Lorraine when she drove up alone—you remember?"

Pendleton nodded—finished knotting his tie, drew on his waist-coat and coat, picked up his gloves, and he and Burgoyne went down-stairs, just as the clock was striking eight.

Immediately dinner was announced, and they went in without partners, and found who they were when they got to the table.

Pendleton was not surprised to find he had Stephanie Lorraine on his right; in fact, he would have been a trifle disappointed had she not been there. It was becoming the rule among Stephanie's few (at present) friends always to include him in their invitations, and always to put them together when it could be done without making too much of a point of it. She was looking particularly fit this evening, in a dull green gown, with a collar of emeralds about her soft white throat and a copper-gold net binding her copper-red hair.

She met him with the familiar little nod that she reserved for him alone, and looked up at him with a bewitching glance as he placed her chair.

"I am surprised to see you!" she smiled.

"Here?" he asked.

"Anywhere!" she answered.

"Is it a pleasant surprise?"

"Of course."

"Anywhere?"

"Everywhere!"

"Everywhere is rather more comprehensive than anywhere!"

"Is it?" she inflected slyly.

"Did you mean it so?" he asked.

"Perhaps."

"You're doubtful?"

"Sometimes."

"When are the sometimes?"

"It depends—on the sometimes."

"Will there ever come a time when there won't be any sometimes?" he asked, bending toward her.

She looked at him—a dreamy, thoughtful light in her eyes.

"I wonder," she said—"what do you think, mon ami?"

"I don't think—I hope," he replied.

She smiled faintly, but with entrancing sweetness.

"Thank you, Montague," she said low—"I shall not forget—at present, I don't dare remember—you understand?"

"I understand," he answered—"more's the pity.—How is Lorraine?"

"Better—he sent for me yesterday."

His eyes sought her face questioningly.

"I went—and stayed a minute," she replied. "I hope I wasn't in too great hurry to get away. It was ghastly, however—perfectly ghastly! I trust he doesn't send for me again. Don't let us talk about it," and she gave a little shudder and reached for her sherry.

Burgoyne, on her left, caught her eye as she did so and raised his glass.

"How!" he said.

"When did you join the Army!" she asked, as the glasses were replaced.

"Whenever we drink a toast to a pretty woman!" he laughed. "It's better than the navy's 'sweethearts and wives.' Sometimes it is a trifle awkward to drink to them both, you know."

He did not realize how it would sound to her until he ended—then he tried to gasp it back.

But she only smiled.

"I don't mind from you, Sheldon," she said.

"I didn't mean it!" he protested. "I was only talking."

"Just keep on talking," she replied. "I know you didn't mean it that way.—And it is true enough sometimes—and sometimes one doesn't care to drink to either," and she smiled slightly. "How lovely Marcia Emerson is, this evening," she remarked.

"From another woman that is a compliment indeed—but you can well afford to be generous, Stephanie, you can give them all cards and spades and little casino—and the ace of hearts."

"So long as I retain the Jack of Hearts, n'est ce pas?"

"And since you retain all the other hearts—your own included," he replied.

"Consider yourself curtsyed to most profoundly!" she laughed. "Now let us return to Miss Emerson. Warwick Devereux seems to be making pretty fast going—can you overhaul him?"

"I?"

She nodded. "Yes, you—can you?"

"Why should I try to overhaul him?" he asked.

"For divers reasons—too numerous to mention—the main one is across the table."

"I see."

"I hope so—and another reason is your disposition to be generous."

"As well as to annoy," he supplemented. "You mean I will try to annoy Dev?"

"I don't think the lady will be annoyed, if you were to try the overhauling act. You know Dev—and so does she, I assume. If she does want to land him, you'll be a relief. In either event, she'll be grateful—and a grateful woman can do much for the gratefulee, especially when he is a man."

"Where do I come in?" he smiled.

"That is for you to find out," she replied.

"You think it is worth trying?"

"Don't you think so?"

"I don't know. I might overtake—and then not want the trick when I get it. Or I might want the trick—and then not be able to overtake."

"Certainly, you might—but you have to risk something in the game; and you're a good gambler, Sheldon—or you used to be. Have you lost your nerve?"

"I'm older!" he replied.

"Three years!" she smiled. "Moreover, I understood that the race is on."

"Not exactly—I'm just trailing—keeping the field in view."

"Rather full view, isn't it?"

"Well, I don't require a glass," he admitted.

"You're lying back until you're sure what you want, and see a chance to get it?" she said.

"That is too comprehensive," he replied. "At present I'm simply looking on—and being entertained."

"There is no possible doubt that you're being entertained!" she laughed. "How does Dev like it—is he being entertained also?"

"Sure—anything entertains him until he tires of it."

"He has not tired of Miss Emerson yet—and it has been a long time for him. In the normal run, he should have butter-flied away to half-a-dozen girls."

"He has never before had a Marcia Emerson to keep him on the jump," said Burgoyne. "He is used to having the girls go down before his money and birth like scuttle-pins. She is a new experience for him—and he's half tempted to become serious. If I press him too close he may become serious, and I don't want that to happen—just yet."

"Till you know if you want it to happen ever?" she laughed. "Do you fancy that Marcia Emerson doesn't know—or at least suspect?"

"I haven't thought," he admitted,—"except that she hasn't yet made up her mind about Devereux. If she concludes that she wants him she'll get him without the least difficulty, I'm sure."

"And if she concludes that she wants—someone else?"

"Meaning me?" he inquired blandly.

"Meaning you," she replied.

"If I'm too close she'll get me easy—hence I'm riding far aback. Good term that—far aback!"

"Perfectly good term, Sheldon—but not true in point of fact. If Miss Emerson wants you she has only to beckon, and you'll burst a girth to come up. All you nice men are alike—at the mercy of a beautiful woman when she calls."

"The vampire!" he reflected. "'A rag, a bone, and a hank of hair!'"

"Maybe"—she reflected. "At any rate, I shall not dispute it. But men like vampires—beautiful vampires."

he quoted.

"Again there is no possible doubt of that," she replied. "The difficulty is that he rarely travels alone. The vampire usually gets him, and he carries her too. We women are all more or less vampires—just as you men are more or less rogues."

"I reckon you're right," he admitted. "At the best, it is simply a matter of degree—and we notice it only when the particular man and woman aren't properly mated. Then she is a vampire or he is a rogue, as the case may be."

"Now you know what to look for. A vampire who will mate your rogue!" she laughed. "Is Miss Emerson the vampire?—that is what you have to determine."

"Or am I her rogue!" he laughed back. "It's a pity we don't always match up, isn't it——" Once again he bit off the words and tried to catch them back.

And once again she smiled indulgently.

"You never can know how you're going to match up until after you've tried it—and then it's too late," she answered. "That is the pity of it, Sheldon, that is the pity of it."

"The pity of what?" asked Pendleton, who had happened to catch her last words.

"The pity of not knowing," she replied, dismissing Burgoyne with a significant smile and turning to Pendleton.

"Not knowing what?" he asked.

"Nothing absolutely."

"Rather heavy talk for a dinner," he observed.

"It wasn't heavy—Sheldon and I were discussing the vampire and the rogue."

"Heavens!" he ejaculated.

"And we agreed that every woman is more or less vampire and every man more or less rogue."

"A trifle cynical, to say the least," he remarked.

"Don't you agree with us?"

"As a general proposition—with exceptions—I'll join the party."

"But we also agree that the exceptions are only a matter of degree."

"You mean there are no exceptions?"

"Exactly!"

"But there are infinitesimal degrees?"

"I—suppose so," she hesitated.

"Very well, I'll go along with you. What degree do you think I am?"

"We also were of a mind that no one knows until after marriage what degree the other is—that is the pity of it."

"In other words, marriage is an eye-opener!" he laughed. "Well we are unanimous on that point also. In fact, I'm ready to agree with you on anything, for anything, and at any time."

"Thank you, Montague—thank you, very much," she replied, with a quick glance through her long lashes. "I want you presently to agree with me—about something."

"It's done!" he replied. "What is it?"

"I cannot tell you here—wait until after dinner, when we are quite alone. I'll manage that—there will be time before Auction begins."

"If we're to be quite alone," he said, "can't you manage that Auction doesn't begin?"

"Don't ask the impossible!" she smiled. "Moreover, Auction is an excellent game."

"When one isn't more agreeably employed," he added.

She shot him another glance.

"You say nice things to me, Montague," she remarked.

"I do more than say them—I mean them."

"Nicer things even than you used to say," she mused.

"And I mean them even more—if that is possible."

"You are spoiling me with compliments."

"I want to spoil you."

"Why?" she asked, a bit startled.

"Because it pleases me to do it—and," leaning a little closer, "because you deserve to be spoiled in the proper way."

"I didn't deserve it—once," she answered.

"You're a different woman from what you were—once, Stephanie."

"People seem to think so!" she said, a trifle bitterly.

"I didn't mean that," he answered quietly. "I mean that there has been little enough in your life of late to spoil you, so I shall try to make it up to you. May I?"

For a moment she did not answer—bending her head lower over her plate. Then she turned and faced him—the adorable smile on her lips.

"You may spoil me, Montague,—if you think it wise," she said. "I'm a wilful creature, you know."

"I'll risk the wilfulness," he declared—"it is little enough to risk."

"Pendleton can tell us," came Cameron's voice—"if he will stop talking trash to Mrs. Lorraine long enough to answer."

"And talk trash to you instead, I presume," Pendleton remarked. "Certainly, what is it?"

"How long has Porshinger belonged to the Club?" asked Cameron.

"Longer than he ought," said Pendleton dryly.

"We know that!" the other laughed, in which the table joined. "But was it last year, or the year before—you were on the Board of Governors, weren't you?"

"Not when he came in," Pendleton replied. "Consequently it must have been within the last two years; since my term expired. Sorry I can't help you out."

"Why is it that every Governor fights shy of having voted for Porshinger?" Cameron asked. "If you press them, they all side-step the responsibility. Porshinger isn't such a bad fellow as a whole."

"Taken as a whole!" exclaimed Devereux. "Lord save the mark! the dose is prohibitive—very little of him is more than sufficient for me."

"What is the matter with him—except that he's a bounder and all that?" Cameron asked.—"There are many in the same class, and some of them 'belong.'"

"True enough," Devereux agreed; "but we tolerate the belongers who belong, on account of their families—at least for a time. Those of Porshinger's stamp are just plain bounders; they have nothing to go on except themselves."

"Would you rather be a bounder with Porshinger's wealth and financial position, or a bounder with only a family behind you?" Cameron inquired.

"Me for Porshinger!" Burgoyne declared. "He has the money and may improve—the other chap is hopeless."

"He is at the next place—Woodside's, I understand," Miss Chamberlain broke in. "Suppose we ask him over and try our softening influence on him."

"Sample him before tasting," Cameron suggested.

"Shake well before taking," Devereux amended.

"We shall ask Pendleton to do the shaking—so it is thoroughly done!" Cameron laughed.

Burgoyne gave Pendleton an amused smile, which the latter returned. They were thinking of the episode on the Club-house piazza.

"You're not serious, Gladys?" cried Mrs. Burleston.

"It is for the table to say," Gladys submitted. "Vote, please—you begin, Dorothy."

"I vote for—that we have him over," said Miss Tazewell.

"So do I," said Mrs. Burleston.

"Marcia, how do you vote?" asked Gladys.

"With the others," Miss Emerson acquiesced—but she hesitated just a trifle before she said it.

"And Mrs. Lorraine?"

Stephanie did not understand the hostess' game, but she caught her significant look and acquiesced.

"I also will vote with the others," she replied.

"The gentlemen, of course, are of the same mind as the ladies so it will be unnecessary to ask them." Miss Chamberlain smiled. "Therefore it is unanimously resolved that Mr. Porshinger be invited to Criss-Cross and to make one of the party. We need another man anyway. I don't hear any objection so the resolution stands. I shall telephone him in the morning."

"And he will be bounder enough to come!" muttered Devereux.

"Of course he will," said Gladys—"it is just because he is a bounder that we're going to ask him. You don't suppose I would venture it on you, or any other gentleman—to take you from another house where you're a guest for the week-end!"

"Cameron, what possessed you to inquire about Porshinger? You're responsible for all this fool thing!" declared Devereux.

"It was a perfectly harmless inquiry," Cameron protested, "which turned out to be loaded. I beg your pardon, Devereux, I shall never do it again."

"Remember I shall expect you men to be civil to him," Miss Chamberlain cautioned.

"Do you actually mean to ask him, Gladys?" said Burgoyne.

"I never was more serious in my life. Moreover it is the will of the table."

Burgoyne held up his hands.

"Oh Lord! Oh Lord!" he exclaimed.

"It isn't all bad," Cameron remarked. "If we treat him half decent maybe sometime we can all borrow an extra wad at the Tuscarora."

"Touching that matter," laughed Devereux, "I have known such things to happen."

"But not touching Porshinger," Cameron observed. "The man who touches him will be a fencer indeed."

"He'll be a burglar!" Devereux retorted. "Why are you so quiet?" turning to Pendleton. "Why don't you say something?—join in, join in!"

"It's not up to me to say anything," Pendleton replied, as he sunk his fork into the asparagus salad.

"It's your funeral as much as anyone's!" Devereux exclaimed.

"Not at all—it is Miss Chamberlain's. She will have to bear the responsibility and the burden—and be nice to him in future. We are obligated to nothing except to be civil to him while we're at Criss-Cross. It is not worrying me in the least—moreover, I'm not in need of money."

"Now you have it, Devereux!" said Cameron. "Want any more?"

"Not at present, thank you!" Devereux laughed. "Meanwhile we have until to-morrow before the bounder arrives. I'm going to enjoy the time while it lasts—it is short enough as it is."

"How are you going to enjoy it?" asked Mrs. Burleston.

"Making love to you."

"Why should Mr. Porshinger's coming interfere with you making love to Helen?" Gladys inquired.

"'Oh, the fascinating widow!'" sang Devereux.

"Do be sensible, Dev," Mrs. Burleston exclaimed.

"Ask of him something possible!" Gladys laughed.

"Dear Lady, you speak with a cruel tongue——"

"But with a true tongue," she interjected.

"Perchance—yes! Verily I say unto you that unless you wear red hosiery in the autumn the truth isn't in you and you shall surely be damned."

"There is not the least doubt of your being damned," remarked Cameron.

"You mistake the sex—I don't wear hosiery. I wear socks."

"I'm not so sure!" Cameron retorted.

"That could be taken as a reflection on me, but you naturally referred to the ladies. 'Twas a most ungallant speech, monsieur, a most ungallant speech! Remember it not against him, mademoiselles—he knows not what he does."

"What a clown Dev can be when he tries!" smiled Pendleton. "His facial expressions make funny what otherwise would be rotten."

"And it is so absurd in him, who is such a wonder in business," Stephanie added. "The man has a double nature, surely—and I can't say that I care for this side. It doesn't fit!"

"On the contrary, it seems to me it fits admirably. He is able to throw off his cares and forget them—and to make a boy of himself. That may be the reason he is so shrewd—he comes at business fresh every morning. I think it was a pretense at first, but it has become second nature now."

"I like a manly man, not a combination of a man and a harlequin," said Stephanie. "A man like Mr. Chamberlain or—you, Montague," with a tantalizing smile from under her lowered lids.

"Don't tempt me!" he warned.—"Don't tempt me!"

"It is perfectly safe to tempt you—here."

"It may not be on the piazza."

"The temptation passes when we leave this room," she enjoined.

"I am not so sure," he threatened.

The hostess arose.

"Does it pass?" Stephanie asked.

He only smiled, and drew out her chair.

"Does it pass?" she repeated as she faced him.

His only answer was another smile.

"Very well, sir; I'll not go on the piazza with you until you acquiesce—and neither will I arrange that we are quite alone, as I had intended."

"You win!" he laughed. "The temptation passes—for to-night."

Half an hour later, the coffee finished, Mrs. Lorraine arose and went into the house. Presently a servant very quietly summoned Pendleton to the telephone. Stephanie was on the landing when he entered the hall, and she met him at the foot of the stairs.

"I'm the telephone," she remarked.

"I had hoped so," he smiled. "Where shall we go?"

"On the side piazza, where the lights are not burning."

He held back the portieres, and they went through the library and out into the star-light night, where the silver crescent of the moon was cutting its way toward the western horizon. All was still save for the faint hum of voices at the front and occasional laughter.

"It's a perfect night!" she breathed. "How much better the country is for one than the dirt and noise and bustle of the big town. The peace and calm—the dolce far niente of it all—is very, very restful."

"It's the place for women who don't have to work—and the men who can afford not to," he said. "Everyone is gravitating toward the country—the pure air, the pure water—the simple life that is not quite so simple as it once was."

"But it's simpler than town life—heaps simpler," as she led the way to a remote corner, where two chairs stood apart.

She took one.—He drew the other close over, and sitting on the arm reached down and took her hand.

"You said the temptation passed," she admonished—while suffering it to remain.

"This isn't temptation—it's admiration, adoration——"

"Flirtation!" she laughed.

"Whatever it is, it isn't flirtation," he said. "You know that, don't you, Stephanie?"

She gave him a fleeting look.

"Yes, Montague, I know that," she answered softly—and quietly withdrew her hand. "Now sit down and let me tell you what it is I want you to agree to—we haven't much time, you know. Devereux will be on our trail if we're absent too long."

He whirled the chair around and sat down—then calmly leaned forward and, in a masterful matter-of-fact way, took possession of both her hands.

"Will that make you more amenable?" she laughed softly, yielding them to him.

"I'll agree to anything you wish, now," he responded.

"But it's not exactly right, Montague," she protested.

"I know it isn't," he admitted; "when we want, we do a lot that isn't right. What is it you have to tell me?"

"It's about Porshinger—" she hesitated.

"You knew Gladys was going to ask him?" he said.

She shook her head. "No, I didn't—she did it on the spur of the moment, I'm sure, though she may have had this matter we are coming to in mind. You're puzzled—and I don't wonder. Tell me, Montague, did you ever have any trouble with Porshinger?"

"Not especially!" he said, trying to throw surprise into his voice. Who had told her?

"Not especially!" she repeated. "What does that mean?"

"Perhaps you would better tell me what you mean," he said.

"Yes, I think I would," she replied, "and it's this: I lunched with Marcia Emerson yesterday at Partridge's—then I took her home in my car. On the way she told me that a few nights prior she was up at the Club until late, and while sitting alone on the piazza she had overheard Porshinger and Murchison—who were seated around the corner from her and evidently thought they had the place to themselves—discussing you. It was only a few words, but they were significant. Murchison asked if there was anything new in the Lorraine affair.

"'Not much,' said Porshinger. 'The matter is progressing; Pendleton is not invulnerable—I've found a way to reach him, and he soon will be having troubles of his own.'

"Murchison advised him to leave well enough alone; to which Porshinger replied that that might be Murchison's way but it wasn't his way—that you had started the fight, and you would think 'merry hell was loose' before he was done with you."

"Is that all Miss Emerson heard?" asked Pendleton.

"Y—e—s, that is all."

"Are you sure, dear?"

"There was something else—it's of no consequence, however. I don't recall it now!" she fluttered.

"Wouldn't you better tell me all?" he said quietly.

"Isn't what I have told you sufficient?" she parried.

"Tell me the rest, Stephanie," he urged.

"He called you a 'snob.'"

He smiled. "You're keeping something back."

"You have made him an enemy?" she evaded.

"I'm afraid I've also made him an enemy of some one else—and that she is hiding it from me. Tell me, dear, weren't you included in the threat?"

"I'm a poor hand at evasion," she sighed.—"Yes, I was included. He said—'and the Lorraine woman too.'"

"I thought as much!" he exclaimed—"the miserable, skulking coward!"

"But I don't understand!—What is it all about—what does it mean?"

"It means that Burgoyne and I had some words with Porshinger and his friend Murchison the night of your return. It was up at the Club and late and no one saw it. They have been so quiet about it since that I thought it had been dropped. I didn't realize what a vindictive brute we had stirred up. Well, we will try to be prepared for the great man!" he laughed.

"This fight," she began——

"I didn't say there was a fight," he interposed.

"No, you didn't say it—but there was a fight, and it was about me—something that he or Murchison said in your hearing, and which you resented.—Wasn't it, Montague?"

"You're very knowing!" he smiled.

"I don't ask you what it was—but if it was?" she persisted.

"Something of that sort," he admitted—"though the—ostensible dispute was over the cut of Porshinger's coat, as I recall it. Your name was not mentioned."

"But they understood?"

"It seems so."

"Tell me about it, Montague," she begged—"the fight and all."

"It doesn't tell well," he objected.

"Tell it anyway!"

"It was just a scrap between us, nothing more."

"But I want to hear it—you did it for me, so why shouldn't you tell me?"

He looked down into the soft eyes upturned to him—and yielded.

"It was this way," he said.... "It was foolish, I suppose," he ended, "but one doesn't always stop to consider under some provocation. I never for an instant thought it would involve you in his spite. I didn't credit him with being so small and mean."

"And now I want you to promise me that you will take every precaution to guard yourself against him," she said.

"Myself!" he exclaimed. "Yes, myself for the purpose of protecting you."

"And for the purpose of protecting yourself also," she broke in. "I am persuaded that Porshinger means mischief."

"What persuaded you?" he smiled.

"The man himself."

"You don't know him?"

"I met him this morning."

"At Criss-Cross—he was here?"

"No—I met him on the Churchville road—while I was taking my early morning walk."

"Had he the effrontery to address you?"

"Very respectfully and very courteously—I did not resent it in the least.—You see," as he looked at her doubtfully, "I myself was trying something, Montague."

"Trying to put salt on the tiger's tail?" he smiled.

"After a fashion. I was reconnoitering—trying to find out his weak points."

"Did you succeed?"

"A little—he is like all men—fond of a pretty woman and—her figure."

"Which you might very readily have inferred," Pendleton remarked.

"No," said she. "Some men with his characteristics are totally indifferent to women. I found out also that he is sensitive about his personal appearance—he wants to look and act a gentleman—and that he will do much to be received by our set."

"Do you consider such weakness very vulnerable?" he asked, amused.

"Most undoubtedly—he will forego much to advance his social position."

"And you think of helping him on?"

"Not that exactly," she reflected. "I think to use it to our advantage—though how I've not the least idea as yet."

"I think you don't appreciate what manner of man Porshinger is, my dear," said he soothingly. "He is as cold as ice and as hard as armor-plate."

"I inferred as much—and such men are usually easy to influence if they have a hobby. Porshinger's hobby—concealed though it be—is the social whirl. Let him but think that he's whirling and anything is possible."

"You're not thinking of—flirting with him?" he asked, puzzled.

"No—just trying to make him like me well enough to forego his revenge. If he foregoes me, he likely will forego you also—as a matter of policy."

"My dear child!" smiled Pendleton. "I'm not concerned about his revenge—not in the least. He can't hurt me, and I don't see how he can hurt you—if you let him alone. The danger, with his kind, is in being nice to them and in having your motives misunderstood and misinterpreted. Since you have met him, you can be politely nice to him but—tell me about this meeting on the road," he said suddenly. "Did it seem to be premeditated on his part?"

"I don't know—but I think not. He overtook me about a mile from the Overton stile—you know the place. He merely raised his hat and spoke casually—as one does in the country—and was passing; then held back; and I gave him leave, by my manner, to accompany me—which he did as far as the Criss-Cross gates."

"Were you going or returning?"

"Going—we returned by the path through the Overton property."

"Why do you smile?" he asked.

"At something that happened—not with him, you foolish boy, not with him—with the Overton bull."

"The what?" Pendleton exclaimed.

"The Overton bull—he assisted me over the fence."

"You don't mean it?" he cried.

"If you had seen me going over you would think that I meant it!" she laughed. "However, I'm quite satisfied that you didn't—there was altogether too generous a display of silk hosiery and lace."

"You prefer that Porshinger should see.—What was the bounder doing?—why didn't he protect you?" he demanded.

"He couldn't—he tried to protect me, but the bull avoided him and made for me."

"He is a bull of sense," said Pendleton. "I compliment him on his discrimination."

"But you can't say so much for me?" she smiled.

"You need some one to look after you, dear—some one on whom you can depend——"

"A matador?" she suggested.

"Very effective so far as the bull is concerned—but not the sort you seem to require."

"You mean something that will keep off undesirable acquaintances."

"Precisely."

"What would you suggest—measles or smallpox?"

"I would suggest a husband."

She shrugged her bare shoulders.

"You forget that I already have a husband—a Mr. Lorraine," she replied.

"That is precisely why I suggest the need for another."

"One can't have two husbands, Montague."

"Not at the same time—and be lawful," he answered.

"Do you mean that I should try another—Amherst?" she asked.

He held up his hands.

"God forbid!" he replied. "I mean 'according to God's own ordinances,' and so forth."

"Who would have me?" she said bitterly.

He leaned a bit forward and looked at her intently.

"I'm a tainted thing—amusing, good to look at, to chat with, to while away the time with, like the high class demi-monde; but for anything more—no! no!"

"You don't think that," he replied.—"You know——"

"I know what the world says of a married woman who does as I have done. It may tolerate her but a man never marries her—or if he does the world punishes him by loss of caste."

He leaned closer, bending down until her hair brushed his face and its perfume rose about him like a cloud.

"I am ready to risk it, dear one," he whispered. "I am ready to marry you the moment you are free."

"You are ready to marry me?" she breathed. "No! no! Montague, I was not playing for that, I was not——"

"Stephanie, dearest, don't you love me?" he asked.

She looked at him steadily an instant—then over her face broke the entrancing smile, and she put up her arm and drew his face close to hers.

"Yes, sweetheart," she whispered—and kissed him on the lips.

But when he would have gathered her into his embrace she stayed him.

"No, dearest," she said, "I will not let you be an Amherst, even in a little—nor would you yourself. I am not going to provoke a fresh scandal that will involve you and make of our—love a reproach. Suppose some one saw me in your arms—what would be the natural inference—with my recent past?"

"No one would see," he pleaded.

"We must not risk it—for your sake, we must not." She put out her hand and slipped it into his. "You may hold me as close as you like in fancy—you can't hold me too close—but help me to be strong, dear one, help me to be strong!"

"You are right," he reflected.—"Just another kiss, and then——"

She held up her face—and their lips met.

As they did so, the lights suddenly flared up in the room directly in the rear and through an open window fell full upon them.

He straightened up instantly.

"No one saw!" he said, glancing around toward the house.

"One can never tell," she answered, with a nervous little laugh. "Some one may have seen." She got up hastily. "Let us go in, we have been out here long enough—and Devereux will be on our trail."

He took her hand and drew it through his arm, and they passed down the piazza and into the house.

* * * * * * *

And some one did see!

Porshinger and Woodside were coming up the walk just as the light flashed out.

"Look there!" the latter exclaimed.

Porshinger nodded.

"A new one on the string," Woodside continued. "Oh, these fascinating women!—You may be able to use that kiss to—advantage, my friend. Two on the string are not too many, unless you would be the only one.—Hey?"

But Porshinger did not answer—and Woodside, with a sharp glance at him, said no more. He did not understand.

As for Porshinger, after the episode of the morning, he did not know whether to be pleased or sorry. He walked on a few steps—hesitated—stopped.

"On the whole, I think we'll not drop in," he remarked—"at least, not this evening. It might not be a propitious time; moreover, Miss Chamberlain may consider me as an intruder. You have no right, Woodside, you know, to take me there, even in a happen-in, without her express permission."

Whereat Woodside stared—and then laughed.

"Precisely my idea!" he remarked—and faced about. Assuredly he did not understand.