“I don’t like your manner,” she told the latter.  “You were abominably rude just now.”

“Forgive me, sweetheart.  I apologize.  That young man of yours sets my teeth on edge.  I can’t abide a predestined parson.  I’ll wager anything he has been preaching at you.”  He smiled ironically as he saw the girl flush.  “So he did preach,—­and against me, I suppose.”

“He did, and quite right, too.  You are not at all a proper person for me to flirt with, just as he said.  Even Miss Lottie told me that and when Miss Lottie objects to a man it means—­”

“That she has failed to hold him herself,” said Alan cynically.  “Stop, Tony.  I want to say something to you before we go in.  I am not a proper person.  I told you that myself.  There have been other women in my life—­a good many of them.  I told you that, too.  But that has absolutely nothing to do with you and me.  I love you.  You are the only woman I ever have loved in the big sense, at least the only one I have ever wanted to marry.  I am like my mother.  She had many lesser loves.  She had only one great one.  She married him.  And I shall marry you.”

“Alan, don’t.  It is foolish—­worse than foolish to talk like that.  My people would never let me marry you, even if I wanted to.  Dick was speaking for them just now when he warned me against you.”

“He was speaking for himself.  Damn him!”

“Alan!”

“I beg your pardon, Tony.  I’m a brute to-night.  I am sorry.  I won’t trouble you any more.  I won’t even keep you to your promise to dance once with me if you wish to be let off.”

The music floated out to them, called insistently to Tony’s rhythm-mad feet and warm young blood.

“Ah, but I do want to dance with you,” she sighed.  “I don’t want to be let off.  Come.”

He bent over her, a flash of triumph in his eyes.

“My own!” he exulted.  “You are my own.  Kiss me, belovedest.”

But Tony pulled away from him and he followed her.  A moment later the scarlet flame was in his arms whirling down the hall to the music of the violins, and Dick, standing apart by the window watching, tasted the dregs of the bitterest brew life had yet offered him.  Better, far better than Tony Holiday he knew where the scarlet flame was blowing.

His dance with Tony over, Alan retired to the library where he used the telephone to transmit a wire to Boston, a message addressed to one James Roberts, a retired circus performer.

CHAPTER XII

AND THERE IS A FLAME

When Alan Massey strayed into the breakfast room, one of the latest arrivals at that very informal meal, he found a telegram awaiting him.  It was rather an odd message and ran thus, without capitalization or punctuation.  “Town named correct what is up let sleeping dogs lie sick.”  Alan frowned as he thrust the yellow envelope into his pocket.