“O Ross, I’m so glad!” she exclaimed, lighting up with pride and pleasure.  Then, warned by his expression, she restrained herself.  “I have felt certain for a long time that you would not throw yourself away on Adelaide.  She is a nice girl—­pretty, sweet, and all that.  But women differ from each other only in unimportant details.  A man ought to see to it that by marrying he strengthens his influence and position in the world and provides for the standing of his children.  And I think Theresa has far more steadiness; and, besides, she has been about the world—­she was presented at court last spring a year ago, wasn’t she?  She is such a lady.  It will be so satisfactory to have her as the head of your establishment—­probably Mr. Howland will give her Windrift.  And her cousin—­that Mr. Fanning she married—­is connected with all the best families in Boston, New York, and Philadelphia.  They are at the top of our aristocracy.”

This recital was not to inform, but to inspire—­to remind him what a wise and brilliant move he had made in the game of life.  And it had precisely the effect she intended.  Had she not herself created and fostered in him the nature that would welcome such stuff as a bat welcomes night?

“I’m going back to Windrift to-morrow,” he said, still sullen, but with the note of the quarrel-seeker gone from his voice.

“When do you wish me to write to her?”

“Whenever you like,” he said.  The defiance in his tone was for Adelaide.  “The engagement is to be announced as soon as I get back.”

Mrs. Whitney was called away, and Ross tried to write to Theresa.  But the words wouldn’t come.  He wandered restlessly about the room, ordered the electric, went to the Country Club.  After an hour of bitterness, he called up his mother.  “You needn’t send that note we were talking about just yet,” he said.

“But I’ve already sent it,” his mother answered.  In fact, the note was just then lying on the table at her elbow.

“What were you in such a devil of a hurry for?” he stormed—­an unnecessary question, for he knew his mother was the sort of person that loses no time in settling an important matter beyond possibility of change.

“I’m sorry, Ross,” she replied soothingly.  “I thought I might as well send it, as you had told me everything was settled.”

“Oh—­all right—­no matter.”  He could break with Theresa whenever he wished.  Perhaps he would not wish to break with her; perhaps, after a few days he would find that his feeling for Adelaide was in reality no stronger than he had thought it at Windrift, when Theresa was tempting him with her huge fortune.  There was plenty of time before it would be necessary to make final choice.

Nevertheless, he did not leave Saint X, but hung round, sour and morose, hoping for some sign from “tamed” Adelaide.

* * * * *

As soon as Theresa got Mrs. Whitney’s note, she wrote to Adelaide.  “I’ve promised not to tell,” her letter began, “but I never count any promise of that kind as including you, dear, sweet Adelaide—­”