“Most amiable,” answered Riatt rather poisonously, and regretted the poison when he saw the Linburnes exchange an amused glance.  Of course every one knew that Mr. Fenimer would present no obstacles.

“Who are you lunching with, Max?  Is that your little secretary?”

The tone, very civil and friendly, made Max furious, as if any one that Christine did not know was hardly worth inquiring about.

“No, it’s Miss Lane—­an old friend of mine.  I think I must have spoken to you about her.”

“Oh, the perfect provider?  Is that really she?” Christine craned her neck openly to stare at her.  “Why, she’s rather nice looking—­for a good housekeeper, that is.  You’re dining with me to-night, aren’t you?”

“No,” answered Riatt, with a sudden inspiration of ill-humor.  “I’m dining with Miss Lane.”

“Bring her, too!  Won’t she come?”

“I really can’t say.”

“You can ask her.”

“To your house?”

Christine always knew when she was really beaten.  She got up with a sigh.  “Take me over,” she said to him, “and I’ll ask her myself.”  And she added to the Linburnes:  “Out-of-town people are always so fussy about little things.”

Riatt did not know if this slightly contemptuous observation were meant to apply to him or to Miss Lane; he hoped in his heart that Dorothy would refuse the invitation.  But he under-estimated Christine’s powers.  No one could have been more persuasive, more meltingly sweet, and compellingly cordial than she was, and it was soon arranged that he was to bring Dorothy to dine that evening.

When it was over, and he was back again in his own seat, he could see, by glancing at Christine that she was engaged in a long humorous account of the incident, for her own table; and he could tell, even from that distance, when he was supposed to be speaking, when Dorothy, and when Christine was repeating her own words.  Meanwhile Dorothy was saying: 

“How charming and simple she is, Max.  You always hear of these people as being so artificial and elaborate.”

“Oh, they’re direct enough,” returned Riatt bitterly.

The bitterness was so apparent that Dorothy could not ignore it.  She looked up at him for an instant and then she said seriously:  “I believe I know what the trouble with you is, Max.  You can’t believe that she loves you for yourself.  You’re haunted by the dread that what you have has something to do with it.  Isn’t that it?”

Max now made use of the well-known counter question as an escape from a tight place.

“And what is your judgment on that point, Dolly?”

“She loves you,” said Miss Lane, with conviction, and a moment afterward she sighed.

“Without disputing your opinion,” returned Riatt, “I should very much like to know on what you base it.”

“Oh, on a hundred things—­on her look, her manner, her being so nice to me—­on woman’s intuition in fact.”