"And you know of nothing?" said Doris, gravely.

"Nothing. And you don't think I'm going to try and ferret out things
against her!" cried the youth, flushing. "No--I must just bear it."

"It's your parents that will have to bear it!"

His face hardened.

"My mother might have prevented it," he said bitterly. "However, I won't
go into that. My father will see I couldn't do anything else. I'd better
get it over. I'm going to my lawyers now. They'll take a few days over
what I want."

"You'll tell your father?"

"I--I don't know," he said, irresolutely. She noticed that he did not
try to pledge her not to give him away. And she, on her side, did not
threaten to do so. She argued with him a little more, trying to get at
his real thoughts, and to straighten them out for him. But it was
evident he had made up such mind as he had, and that his sudden
resolution--even the ugly scene which had made him take it--had been a
relief. He knew at last where he stood.

So presently Doris let him go. They parted, liking each other decidedly.
He thanked her warmly--though drearily--for taking an interest in him,
and he said to her on the threshold:

"Some day, I hope, you'll come to Crosby Ledgers again, Mrs.
Meadows--and I'll be there--for once! Then I'll tell you--if you
care--more about it. Thanks awfully! Good-bye."

* * * * *

Later on, when "Miss Flink," in a state of sulky collapse, had been sent
home in her taxi, Doris, Bentley, and Miss Wigram held a conference. But
it came to little. Bentley, the hater of "rows," simply could not be
moved to take the thing up. "I kept her from scalping him!--" he
laughed--"and I'm not due for any more!" Doris said little. A whirl of
arguments and projects were in her mind. But she kept her own counsel
about them. As to the possibility of inducing the man to break it off,
she repeated the only condition on which it could be done; at which
Uncle Charles laughed, and Alice Wigram fell into a long and thoughtful
silence.

* * * * *

Doris arrived at home rather early. What with the emotions of the day,
the heat, and her work, she was strangely tired and over-done. After tea
she strolled out into Kensington Gardens, and sat under the shade of
trees already autumnal, watching the multitude of children--children of
the people--enjoying the nation's park all to themselves, in the
complete absence of their social betters. What