softly for a few moments. Then he said, without
turning:

"She's got to go some if she beats the girl I saw this evening, Phil."
He turned at Philip's silence, and laughed. "I beg your pardon, old
man, I didn't mean to speak of her as if she were a horse. I mean Miss
Brokaw."

"And I don't particularly like the idea of betting on the merits of a
pretty girl," replied Philip, "but I'll break the rule for once, and
wager you the best hat in New York that she does beat her."

"Done!" said Gregson. "A little gentle excitement of this sort will
relieve the tension of the other thing, Phil. I've heard enough of
business for to-night. I'm going to finish a sketch that I have begun
of her before I forget the fine points. Any objection?"

"None at all," said Philip. "Meanwhile I'll go out to breathe a spell."

He put on his coat and took down his cap from a peg in the wall.
Gregson had seated himself under the lamp and was sharpening a pencil.
As Philip went to go out Gregson drew an envelope from his pocket and
tossed it on the table.

"If you should happen to see any one that looks like--her," he said,
nodding toward the envelope, "kindly put in a word for me, will you? I
did that in a hurry. It's not half flattering."

Philip laughed as he picked up the envelope.

"The most beau--" he began.

He caught himself with a jerk. Gregson, looking up from his
pencil-sharpening, saw the smile leave his lips and a quick flush leap
into his bronzed cheeks. He stared at the face on the envelope for a
half a minute, then gazed speechlessly at Gregson.

It was Gregson who laughed, softly and without suspicion.

"How does your wager look now?" he taunted.

"She--is--beautiful," murmured Philip, dropping the envelope and
turning to the door, "Don't wait for me, Greggy. Go to bed."

He heard Gregson laugh behind him, and he wondered, as he went out,
what Gregson would say if he told him that he had drawn on the back of
the old envelope the beautiful face of Eileen Brokaw!

V

A dozen steps beyond the door Philip paused in the shadow of a dense
spruce, half persuaded to return. From where he stood he could see
Gregson bending over the table, already at work on the picture. He
confessed that the sketch had startled him. He knew that it had sent
the hot blood rushing to his face, and that only through a fortunate
circumstance had Gregson ascribed its effect upon him to something that
was wide of the truth. Miss Brokaw