e of insecurity in his
ironical formality; and her outstretched hand fell away from his with
indifference.

"I didn't have the happiness of riding with you, after all," he said,
serenely seating himself and dropping one lank knee over the other.
"Promises wouldn't be valuable unless somebody broke a lot now and
then."

"You probably had the happiness of riding with some other woman."

He nodded.

"Who, this time?"

"Rosalie Dysart."

Rumour had been busy with their names recently. The girl's face became
expressionless.

"Sorry you didn't come," he said, looking out of the window where the
flapping shade revealed a lilac in bloom.

"How long did you wait for me?"

"About a minute. Then Rosalie passed----"

"Rosalies will always continue to pass through your career, my
omnivorous friend.... Did it even occur to you to ride over here and
find out why I missed our appointment?"

"No; why didn't you come?"

"Bibi went lame. I'd have had another horse saddled if I hadn't seen
you, over my shoulder, join Mrs. Dysart."

"Too bad," he commented listlessly.

"Why? You had a perfectly good time without me, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, pretty good. Delancy Grandcourt was out after luncheon, and
when Rosalie left he stuck to me and talked about you until I let my
horse bolt, and it stirred up a few mounted policemen and
riding-schools, I can tell you!"

"Oh, so you lunched with Mrs. Dysart?"

"Yes. Where is Kathleen?"

"Driving," said the girl briefly. "If you don't care for any tea, there
is mineral water and a decanter over there."

He thanked her, rose and mixed himself what he wanted, and began to walk
leisurely about, the ice tinkling in the glass which he held. At
intervals he quenched his thirst, then resumed his aimless promenade, a
slight smile on his face.

"Has anything particularly interesting happened to you, Duane?" she
asked, and somehow thought of Rosalie Dysart.

"No."

"How are your pictures coming on?"

"The portrait?" he asked absently.

"Portrait? I thought all the very grand ladies you paint had left town.
Whose portrait are you painting?"

Before he answered, before he even hesitated, she knew.

"Rosalie Dysart's," he said, gazing absently at the lilac-bush in flower
as the wind-blown curtain revealed it for a moment.

She lifted her dark eyes curiously. He began to stir the ice in his
glass with a silver paper-cutter.

"She is wonderfully beautiful, isn't she?" said the girl