not so sure of that. He felt, indeed, that he himself had been to blame,
they had all been to blame; ma, Betty Carew, the Moores, Madam Ruiz and
the Senor Ruiz, Madam Giron--they had all been asleep, and had let this
worst of modern innovations creep upon them unawares. For surely the
foundations of society were shaken when the engagement of a young lady
of Garda's position could be "broken." "And broken, ma," as he repeated
solemnly to his little mother a dozen times, "_without cause_."

"Well, my son, would you rather have had it broken _with_?" asked ma at
last.

The Doctor had had an interview with Winthrop. And he had been obliged
to confess (still to ma) that the northerner had borne himself with
courtesy and dignity, had given him nothing to take hold of; he had
simply said, in a few words, that Garda had asked to be released, and
that of course he had released her.

The Doctor himself had fervently desired that she should be freed. But
this made no difference in his astonishment that the thing could really
be done, had already been brought about. Garda had wished it; he himself
had wished it; and Winthrop had obeyed their wish. Nevertheless,
Reginald Kirby was a prey to rage, he was sure that somebody ought to be
severely handled. In the mean while it seemed a wise course to take
Garda to other scenes.

Adolfo Torres returned from Cuba before Garda's departure. He bade her
good-by with his usual gravity; then, exactly three hours later, he
started for Charleston himself. He kept punctiliously just that amount
of time behind her, it was part of his method; on this occasion the
method caused some discomfort, since, owing to the small number of
trains in that leisurely land, it obliged him to travel with the freight
all the way.

A week later a letter came to Evert Winthrop. It was a letter which gave
him a sharp surprise.

It bore the postmark of the little post-office out in the St. John's
where he had sat in the rain, and the contents were as follows:

"DEAR OLD LAD,--I am here--on the river. Could you come over for a
day? I am very anxious to see you.

"LANSING HAROLD."

At the last intelligence, Lanse had been in Rome.

There was a scrawled postscript:

"Say nothing, I write only to you."

Winthrop's relations with Margaret since they had parted, on the day of
his return, at the drawing-room door, had been of the scantiest; they
had scarcely exchanged a word. She avoided him; he s