ght. And she had been out of town and unaware that he had
deliberately avoided her. Had taken for granted that he had been polite
enough to call--and had left his cards at home.

Should he go? He'd have his breakfast first and do his thinking
afterward.

He did ample justice to the breakfast which was also lunch, read his
newspapers, cursed the printers of his own for two typographical errors
he found in his column, then called up her house. Feeling as normal and
unromantic as a man generally does when digesting a meal and the news, he
concluded that to refuse her invitation, to attempt to avoid her, in
short, would not only be futile, as he was bound to respond to that
magnet sooner or later, but would be a further confession of cowardice.
Whatever his fate, he'd see it through.

He gave his acceptance to the butler, went out and took a brisk walk,
returned and wrote his column for the next day, then visited his club and
talked with congenial souls until it was time to dress for dinner. No
more thinking at present.

Nevertheless, he ascended her steps at exactly half-past eight with the
blood pounding in his ears and his heart acting like a schoolboy's in his
first attack of calf love. But he managed to compose himself before the
footman leisurely answered his ring. If there was one point upon which
he was primarily determined it was to keep his head. If he gave her a
hint that she had reduced him to a state of imbecility before his moment
came--if it ever did!--his chances would be done for--dished. He looked
more saturnine than ever as he strode into the hall.

"Dinner will be served in the library, sir," said the footman. "Madame
will be down in a moment."

A tete-a-tete by the fire! Worse and worse. He had been fortified by
the thought of the butler and footman. An hour under their supercilious
eyes would mean the most impersonal kind of small talk. But they'd
hardly stand round the library.

However, the small table before the blazing logs looked very cosy and the
imposing room was full of mellow light. Two Gothic chairs had been drawn
to the table. They, at least, looked uncomfortable enough to avert
sentiment. Not that he felt sentimental. He was holding down something
a good deal stronger than sentiment, but he flattered himself that he
looked as saturnine as Satan himself as he warmed his back at the fire.
He hoped she had a cold in her head.

But she had not. As she entered, dresse