ere not worth while, even though I wholly
lost hope, still I'd not give her up. I couldn't--that's my nature.
But--_she_ is worth while." And I could see her, slim and graceful,
the curves in her face and figure that made my heart leap, the azure
sheen upon her petal-like skin, the mystery of her soul luring from
her eyes.

After we had arranged the business--or, rather, arranged to have it
arranged through our lawyers--he walked down to the pier with me. At
the gangway he gave me another searching look from head to foot--but
vastly different from the inspection with which our interview had
begun. "You are a devilish handsome young fellow," said he. "Your
pictures don't do you justice. And I shouldn't have believed any man
could overcome in one brief sitting such a prejudice as I had against
you. On second thought, I don't believe I care to see her. She must be
even below the average."

"Or far above it," I suggested.

"I suppose I'll have to ask her over to visit me," he went on. "A fine
hypocrite I'll feel."

"You can make it one of the conditions of your gift that she is not to
thank you or speak of it," said I. "I fear your face would betray us,
if she ever did."

"An excellent idea!" he exclaimed. Then, as he shook hands with me in
farewell: "You will win her yet--if you care to."

As I steamed up the Sound, I was tempted to put in at Dawn Hill's
harbor. Through my glass I could see Anita and Alva and several
others, men and women, having tea on the lawn under a red and white
awning. I could see her dress--a violet suit with a big violet hat to
match. I knew that costume. Like everything she wore, it was both
beautiful in itself and most becoming to her. I could see her face,
could almost make out its expression--did I see, or did I imagine, a
cruel contrast to what I always saw when she knew I was looking?

I gazed until the trees hid lawn and gay awning, and that lively
company and her. In my bitterness I was full of resentment against
her, full of self-pity. I quite forgot, for the moment, _her_ side of
the story.

XVIII.

It was the next day, I think, that I met Mowbray Langdon and his
brother Tom in the entrance to the Textile Building. Mowbray was back
only a week from his summer abroad; but Tom I had seen and nodded to
every day, often several times in the same day, as he went to and fro
about his "respectable" dirty work for the Roebuck-Langdon clique. He
was one of their most frequently used