"No; it's very, very good sense. It's the only thing possible. Can't
you see?"

"No."

"Then Frances will help you see."

"She won't want to make a cad of me; I know that."

"I'm going in now."

She opened the door behind her.

"Wait a moment," he pleaded.

"No, I can't wait any longer. Good-bye."

She was in the dark hall now.

"Good-bye," she repeated.

"S'long," he answered.

Softly, gently, she closed the door upon him. Then she stumbled up the
stairs to her room, and in the dark threw herself face down on her
bed.

CHAPTER XXV

IN THE PARK

Either Frances had grown more beautiful in the last three months, or
Don had forgotten how really beautiful she was when she left; for,
when she stepped down the gangplank toward him, he was quite sure that
never in his life had he seen any one so beautiful as she was then.
Her cheeks were tanned, and there was a foreign touch in her costume
that made her look more like a lady of Seville than of New York. As
she bent toward him for a modest kiss, he felt for a second as if he
were in the center of some wild plot of fiction. This was not she to
whom he was engaged,--she whom he purposed to marry within the
week,--but rather some fanciful figure of romance.

He stepped into her car,--he did not know even if he was asked,--and
for a half-hour listened to her spirited narration of incidents of the
voyage. It was mostly of people, of this man and that, this woman and
that, with the details of the weather and deck sports. Under ordinary
circumstances he might have enjoyed the talk; but, with all he had to
tell her, it sounded trivial.

They reached the house. Even then, there was much talk of trunks and
other things of no importance to him whatever. Stuyvesant hung around
in frank and open admiration of his daughter; and Mrs. Stuyvesant
beamed and listened and stayed. Don had a feeling that, in spite of
his position in the family, they looked upon him at this moment as an
intruder.

It was another half-hour before he found himself alone with her. She
came to his side at once--almost as if she too had been awaiting this
opportunity.

"Dear old Don," she said. "It's good to see you again. But you look
tired."

"And you look beautiful!" he exclaimed.

Now that he was alone with her, he felt again as he had at the
steamer--that this woman was not she to whom he was engaged, but
some wonderful creature of his imagination. The plans he had made for
her