r that and for what must be when the crisis
arrived--well, it was inevitable. I threw in the clutch and drew out
of the stable. At any rate, there were the hours back of me, and
Margery was--Margery. There was sweetness in this thought, and
infinite anguish, too.

She met me at the steps, hooded and veiled, and, with a pretty air of
possession which made my heart leap, instructed the doorman to have
"the trunk put into the tonneau, please." A minute later we were off,
Mrs. "Ted" watching our departure and calling out: "_Remember!_ I
consider myself responsible for Miss Gans until she is with Mrs.
Page!"

"Miss Gans" and "Mrs. Page"! Even to my dull comprehension those
formalities conveyed their warning. A quickened sense of how I stood
toward the slender girl, nestled so comfortably in the seat beside me,
stimulated my determination to do nothing, to say nothing, which she
could recall to my shame when--when the time came.

I must have administered my intentions with strictness; for,
presently, she said, suppressing the suspicion of a yawn: "Are you so
_very_ tired? Am I such _dreadfully_ slow company?"

"Neither," I said, with emphasis, and stopped there.

She laughed. "You meant to say both. But the automobile _does_ make
one silent, doesn't it? And contented, too. I shall look back on this
evening for a long time to come."

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For the pleasure of your company."

She became very grave over my statement. "If you really mean that, I
am very glad," she said. "For I like you, Mr. Page, 'deed I do. And I
will confess you are very different from the picture I had made of
you--for myself."

"For yourself?" I began, quickly, but caught myself and added, with
unimpeachable politeness: "I am flattered that I should improve on
acquaintance."

"You surely do," she replied. "Yet it is not so much that you do not
look exactly as I had imagined. It is not that. But, you see, all I
had heard of you came from Edith, and she--she nearly made me loathe
you in advance by her continual singing of your praises. I had--yes, I
had about decided to stay away to-night, when I thought it would be
better to come and see for myself."

"And you aren't sorry?"

"Of course not. Haven't I told you?"

"Margery!" I cried. Duty and discretion slipped my mind. Anyhow, I
reflected, a woman who would make a fool of a man as "Edith" had done
deserved no consideration. "Margery!" I repeated, very earnestly, and
s