future. And there was a fighting chance. He had youth and
courage and a love for her he challenged any man to match. Why not? Was
it beyond the bounds of reason that some day he could make Becky love
him?

They had agreed that no one was to be told. "Not until I come back from
Nantucket," Becky had stipulated.

"By that time you won't want me, my dear."

"Well, I shan't if you talk like that," Becky had said with some spirit.

"Like what?"

"As if I were a queen and you were a slave. When you were a little boy
you bossed me, Randy."

There had been a gleam in his eye. "I may again."

He wondered if, after all, that would be the way to win her. Yet he
shrank from playing a game. When she came to him, if she ever came, it
must be because she found something in him that was love-worthy. At
least he could make himself worthy of love, whether she ever came to him
or not.

He stopped by the fountain; just beyond it the long windows of the Hunt
Room opened out upon the lawn. The light lay in golden squares upon the
grass. Randy, still in the shadow, stood for a moment looking in. There
were long tables and little ones, kaleidoscopic color, movement and
light, and Becky back in her corner in the midst of a gay group.

He was aware, suddenly, that he was not the only one who watched. Half
hidden by the shadows of one of the great pillars of the lower porch was
a man in light flannels and a gray cap.

He was not skulking, and indeed he seemed to have a splendid
indifference to discovery. He was staring at Becky and in his hand, a
blaze of lovely color against his coat, was Becky's fan!

Randy took a step forward. George turned and saw him.

"I was looking for that," Randy said, and held out his hand for the fan.

But Dalton did not give it to him. "She knows I have it."

"How could she know?" Randy demanded; "she dropped it from the balcony."

"And I was under the balcony"--George's laugh was tantalizing,--"a
patient Romeo."

"You picked it up."

"I picked it up. And she knew that I did. Didn't she tell you?"

She had not told him. He remembered now her unwillingness to have him
search for it.

He had no answer for George. But again he held out his hand.

"She will be glad to get it. Will you give it to me?"

"She told me I might--keep it."

"Keep it----?"

"For remembrance."

There was a tense pause. "If that is true," said Randy, "there is, of
course, nothing else for me to say."

He turned to