“It was rotten,” exclaimed the other in seeming disgust.  I did not know what was on, or I should not have gone.  Last week they had a fine picture, a regular classic.  Did you see it?

“No; in fact, this is my first visit.”

“Oh, indeed.  This is Miss Duke’s second visit only.”

Under the bright lights Carlia showed rouge on her cheeks, something Dorian had never seen on her before.  Her lips seemed redder than ever, and he eyes shone with a bright luster.  Mr. Lamont led them to his automobile, and then Dorian remembered the night when this same young man with the same automobile had stopped near Carlia’s home.  Carlia seated herself with the driver, while Dorian took the back seat.  They were soon speeding along the road which led to Greenstreet.  The cool night air fanned Dorian’s hot face.  Conversation ceased.  Even Carlia and the driver were silent.  The moon peeped over the eastern hills.  The country-side was silent.  Dorian thought of the strange events of the evening.  This Mr. Lamont had not only captured Carlia but Dorian also.  “If I were out with a girl,” reasoned Dorian, “I certainly wouldn’t want a third person along if I could help it.”  Why should this man be so eager to have his company?  Dorian did not understand, not then.

In a short time they drove up to Carlia’s gate, and she and Dorian alighted.  The driver did not get out.  The machine purred as if impatient to be off again and the lamps threw their streams of light along the road.

“Well, I shall have to be getting back,” said Mr. Lamont.  “Goodnight, Miss Duke.  Thanks for your company.  Goodnight, Mr. Trent; sure glad to have met you.”

The machine glided into the well-worn road and was off.  The two stood looking at it for a moment.  Then Carlia moved toward the house.

“Come in” she said.

He mechanically followed.  He might as well act the fool to the end of the chapter, he thought.  It was eleven by the parlor clock, but the mother seemed greatly relieved when she saw Dorian with her daughter.  Carlia threw off her wraps.  She appeared ill at ease.  Her gaiety was forced.  She seemed to be acting a part, but she was doing it poorly.  Dorian was not only ill at ease himself, but he was bewildered.  He seated himself on the sofa.  Carlia took a chair on the other side of the room and gazed out of the window into the night.

“Carlia, why did you—­why do you,” he stammered.

“Why shouldn’t I?” she replied, somewhat defiantly as if she understood his unfinished question.

“You know you should not.  It’s wrong.  Who is he anyway?”

“He at least thinks of me and wants to show me a good time, and that’s more than anybody else does.”

“Carlia!”

“Well, that’s the truth.”  She arose, walked to the table in the middle of the room and stood challengingly before him.  “Who are you to find fault?  What have you done to—­”