"How does Porshinger seem to be doing?" asked Miss Chamberlain, as five weeks or so later she and Stephanie were having luncheon together in town.

"Very well, indeed, so far as I can judge," the latter answered.

"I don't know anyone who is more competent to judge," Gladys smiled. "He now is your shadow. Any indication of any attempt on Montague?"

"None.—Indeed, he has been rather complimentary of late to Montague, in a mild sort of way."

"Beware the Greeks bearing gifts."

"I am being aware.—Montague doesn't like it at all; in fact, we've quarrelled."

"Quarrelled with Montague!" cried Gladys. "I can't believe it!"

"We've quarrelled nevertheless, and all because of Porshinger. Montague insisted that I was encouraging the 'bounder,'—and one thing led to another until I flashed out. Montague lost patience and grew angry—and we fought."

"Like two children!" the other laughed. "What in the world ever possessed you to quarrel with Montague Pendleton, the best friend surely a woman ever had?"

"I think it was the devil!" confessed Stephanie.

"The devil at the very least," agreed her friend. "Have you given him no chance since to make it up?"

"I've seen him only once—on the street. I think he has been away."

"How like a woman!" Gladys remarked. "To quarrel with the one man who is devoted to her, absolutely devoted to her, and who hasn't a selfish thought where she is concerned! Stephanie, I feel like shaking you!"

"I feel like shaking myself," Stephanie replied. "By the way, didn't you ever quarrel with your best man friend? I think I can recollect several at different times—for instance——"

"Of course you can recollect—but don't!" Gladys laughed. "However, none of the interested parties was a Montague Pendleton. Good heavens! my dear, do you realize what he has been to you—what he is to you?"

"I think that is just what made me quarrel—the perversity of the woman. I'll make it up, however, and he will let me make it up, and we will be better friends for this little disagreement. The nice thing about Montague is his broad-mindedness."

"One of the nice things," amended Gladys. "He has got several more—more, indeed, than any man I know. I never could understand, Stephanie, why you——" she broke off and jabbed her fork into her salad.

"Why I didn't marry him instead of Henry Lorraine, you were about to say," Stephanie finished. "Neither do I—it is only another exhibition of our sex's perverseness. And I've been paying the penalty for it ever since—and it is a long account." She shrugged her shoulders expressively. "You're going to the Croyden's ball tonight, I suppose."

"I am invited. I never miss anything at the Croyden's, if I can help it. They do things well. You're going, of course."

"I don't know—I feel rather listless today."

"Get over it," said Gladys briskly. "Your mother is away, so come and stay the night with me and we'll go together."

With the result that at ten o'clock the Chamberlain car deposited them at the entrance of the Croyden country-house—a huge place, with great, wide piazzas on all four sides, but so arranged that they minimized the extent of the house and made it seem only of average size.

In the dressing rooms they came upon Helen Burleston, Dorothy Tazewell and Arabella Rutledge. They all went down-stairs together, and greeted their host and hostess. Presently they were found by Devereux, Burgoyne and Cameron, and the eight of them strolled out on the west piazza.

Burgoyne was with Gladys and Stephanie, and Gladys enquired:

"Where is Miss Emerson, Sheldon; you and Devereux haven't both lost her, have you?"

"We haven't found her yet, I fancy!" Burgoyne laughed,—"at least, I haven't."

"Then it is safe to infer that she hasn't arrived. You're a good hunter, Sheldon."

"Thank you, my lady—I appreciate the compliment from one who has so often been the quarry yet never has been caught. How many scalps dangle at your belt, I wonder?"

"Not yours, at all events!" Gladys laughed.

"No—not mine," Burgoyne returned sadly. "I have been prudent even though it has been at the expense of my happiness."

"How cleverly you have concealed it!" Gladys retorted.

"Until now, alas!"

"Perhaps we may strike a bargain," she reflected.

"A bargain!" he protested. "How sordid!"

"How does Miss Emerson view the question—the general question, I mean?"

"I haven't asked her!"

"You haven't asked her yet," she corrected.

"But I think—I think she would at least not style it a 'bargain,'" he replied.

She tapped him with her fan.

"Try it, Sheldon—try it, my boy!" she said. "'Faint heart never yet,' you know."

"Brave heart has failed in some instances," he replied. "Witness your girdle and its appendages."

"Precisely—but it's because they were brave that they hang there. They at least had a chance of winning, and they took the chance."

"And lost!" he ended.

They had entered the ballroom; and Porshinger, who was standing in a corner at the other side, sighted them and bore down in pursuit.

Miss Chamberlain saw him—as did plenty of others—and she indicated to Burgoyne that he should dance with Stephanie. She herself stopped beside Mrs. Burleston. Burgoyne understood—and putting his arm around Stephanie's waist he swung her away.

Porshinger saw the play—and smiled—and Burgoyne detected the smile and knew its cause.

"That fellow Porshinger," he remarked, "is becoming entirely too persistent."

"Do you think so?" Stephanie laughed.

"I think so—most decidedly. What does Pendleton mean by permitting it?"

"What has Mr. Pendleton to say about it?" she inquired sweetly.

"What have I to say about it, either?" he replied. "Just this, Stephanie: We're your friends—we've been your friends from the cradle, so to speak, and I, for one, am not going to let that miserable bounder compromise you without making a strenuous protest. It's beginning to be talked about in the Clubs and drawing-rooms. His attentions to you are causing comment. You don't know it, of course, but it has become decidedly marked in the last couple of weeks. At least half the people in this room saw you enter, saw Porshinger start across—and they stopped talking and watched you. Maybe you didn't notice it, but Gladys and I did, and——"

"I noticed it," Stephanie answered, "and it is absurd—this talk. Mr. Porshinger has never been anything but most courteous."

"Of course he hasn't. All your friends know that, but——"

"I have a bad reputation back of me," she interrupted. "Well, I can't see how I shall ever manage to keep out of its shadow. However, I promise to be more circumspect. To be quite frank with you, Sheldon, I positively dislike Porshinger. I'm doing this with a purpose."

"I know," he said; "but you can't afford it—it's too compromising. You can't control Porshinger. He is a cad—and you don't understand cads. They are not governed by the same instincts as the men of your class. Your scheme would work with them but will not work with Porshinger. He will misinterpret and presume."

"I think I can control him," she answered. "He has manifested no disposition to presume."

"Oh, no!—the disposition and the presumption will be synchronous in their manifestation, if I know anything of cads—and Porshinger's kind in particular. I wish Pendleton were here—where has he been the last four weeks?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

He looked down at her thoughtfully.

"Well," he said, "I wish he would come back and get on the job. He is shirking his duty."

"And that duty is?" she asked sweetly.

"To look after you—now don't flare up and explode! You know that every woman needs a man to look after her—and Pendleton is the particular man for this particular woman."

"Don't be silly, Sheldon!" Stephanie laughed.

"That's better—more natural to you. Gee! what a dancer you are! There is more ravishing rhythm in your swing than any one's I know. It's simply perfect."

"I might say the same of yours."

"Don't. I'm intoxicated enough as it is."

"Just imagine I'm Miss Emerson!" she smiled.

"If you'll imagine I'm Montague Pendleton."

She did not answer—and he surmised the situation.

"You two have quarrelled," he said.

The faintest shrug of the lovely shoulders answered him.

"Now don't do anything rash—before you make it up," he cautioned. "I'm a little surprised at Pendleton letting you quarrel with him. I thought he was too superior a being for that; but you never can tell when——" He smiled at her significantly. "There may be method in his plan, but I—no, assuredly, you never can tell!"

"No, you never can tell anything for sure," she replied enigmatically.

The music stopped. They were just beside Miss Chamberlain and Cameron, and the four strolled out of the crush to the punch bowl on the nearest piazza.

"May I have the next dance, Mrs. Lorraine?" said Porshinger's voice behind them.

Cameron, who was close, touched her arm.

"It is promised to Mr. Cameron!" Stephanie smiled.

"How about the next?" Porshinger asked.

She felt Burgoyne's fingers close lightly around her own.

"It is taken also—Mr. Burgoyne gets it!" she smiled again.

"Which one may I have before the cotillon?" Porshinger persisted pleasantly, refusing to be rebuffed.

"You may have the—fifth," she replied.

"You mean the fifth from now or from the beginning?"

"The fifth from the beginning," she answered, as Cameron bore her back to the ballroom.

"I didn't know if you wanted to dance," began Cameron, "but I——"

"It was very good of you, Steuart, very good indeed," she replied. "I would much rather dance with my friends than with——"

"Your enemies," he appended.

"I don't say so."

"No, I say so. Meanwhile, let us forget Porshinger and enjoy the music. You sure are a dancer, Stephanie!"

"So Sheldon says!" she smiled. "I'm delighted that I haven't lost that too"—then gave herself up to the slow languorous waltz, so intoxicating in its swing that it fairly lifted them up and bore them along without an effort.

"Thank you!" said Cameron, when it ended. "It was entrancing—simply entrancing! Don't dance so with Porshinger, I pray you; he may not be able to withstand temptation."

"I knew I could trust you, Steuart!" she laughed. "I'll be more prudent with the other."

And she was—dancing it in the formal way, with tight held body, yielding just sufficiently for the dance but not a shade more.

And Porshinger noted the difference; and he said, as the music ended:

"I'm afraid I'm rather an awkward dancer, Mrs. Lorraine. I don't seem to get on as I should."

"I did not notice it," she replied.

"At least, I didn't get on as Cameron or Burgoyne did."

"You must remember that I have danced with them for years—we know each other's steps."

"Yes, that may be it—for I can modestly say that I am not a poor dancer. It struck me that we were not in accord temperamentally—we didn't catch the spirit, so to speak. We were treading the minuet rather than dancing a two-step."

"You mean we were doing it decorously rather than in a romp!" she laughed. "I don't like rompish dancing, Mr. Porshinger."

"Nor do I; but there is a happy medium—as you showed with Burgoyne," he replied calmly. "That is what I had in mind."

"When you have known me as long as they have, our steps doubtless will fit as well also."

"Let us hope that it won't be so long deferred," he answered, bending down and whispering it confidentially in her ear. "When may I have another try—may I have the third from now?"

"I shall dance no more before the cotillon," she replied.

"Then sit out another with me," he pleaded—in the certain compelling manner he at times assumed; and which she tolerated because it amused her, and because it was Porshinger who did it—and she was playing a game.

"Here is the conservatory; let us investigate the abode of the flowers," he said.

She hesitated a moment, then permitted him to lead her in. She had seen Gladys Chamberlain just ahead of her.

"How charming! how entrancing!" she exclaimed, as they entered. "A veritable fairyland."

"It is very pretty," Porshinger agreed.

"You don't enthuse. Look how the light falls on the palms and the cactus and the rhododendron, yet you don't see whence it comes."

"It comes from the roof!" he laughed. "Nevertheless, I grant you the fairyland—a maze of flowers and foliage, with you the Fairy, madame."

"The Fairy-madame!" she laughed. "How romantic."

Gladys had disappeared, but other couples were strolling about.

"Which shows how important is a comma," he remarked. "Let us sit yonder," indicating two chairs well hidden by a palm, "while I enjoy my little trip into fairyland with the Fairy."

It was not far from the entrance and Stephanie complied.

"Do you know," he said presently, "we are almost quite concealed by this tree—what a charming place it is, so near and yet so far."

"Particularly so near!" she rejoined.

"And particularly so far!" he smiled, apparently all unconsciously letting his arm fall around her waist but without touching her.

The next moment he suddenly drew her to him and bent over.

"Just one," he said.

And before she could so much as struggle he kissed her on the lips.

"You vile coward!" she panted, held close in his arms yet writhing to be free. "You miserable cur! You——"

"Why struggle so, Stephanie—no one saw," he whispered. She was but pretending.

She tore herself loose—only to be caught back again and crushed closer.

"Let me go!—Let me go!" she gasped frantically.

This was no pretense, and he realized it. He had thought it would be otherwise—had thought that she would be a yielding beauty—and the mistake angered him. He was not given to making mistakes. She had drawn him on—and now——

"You didn't struggle so with Pendleton on the porch at Criss-Cross," he said, kissing her again and again.... "Aren't mine just as sweet and worth as much as his?"

Once more she tore herself loose and sprang away—made a step—then stopped and faced him.

He had risen and was moving slowly after, a mocking smile on his lips.

"You will please take me back to the ball-room," she commanded. "I am not minded to provoke comment by returning alone."

"I am always your most obedient servant," he replied, with a bow and another smile.

In silence they passed from the conservatory and into the ball-room a little way. There she dropped his arm.

"You will do me the favor of never speaking to me again," she said—and left him.

"Spirit!" he muttered, as he turned away. "Spirit—or a damn good player! I don't know which." He gave an admiring chuckle. "God! what a looker she is!"