Gard watched her with varying emotions.  “Well,” he said slowly, “that money belongs to you.  I made it for you and you’re going to have it.  In the meantime, as you may require the ‘purchase money,’ as you call it, to settle bills for soda water and gardenias, I’ll make you out another cheque; the remainder will stay with the firm on deposit for you—­whether you wish it or not.  This is one time when I’m not to be dictated to—­no, nor blackmailed.”  He spoke roughly and glanced at her quickly.  Not an eyelash quivered.  His voice changed.  “I wish I understood you,” he grumbled.  “I wish I did.  But perhaps that would, after all, be a great pity.  You’re an extraordinary woman, Mrs. Marteen.  You’ve ‘got me going,’ as the college boys say—­but I like you, hanged if I don’t.  And I repeat, at the risk of having you sneer at me again, I meant every word I said, and I still mean it; and I’m sorry you don’t see it that way.”

Her smile glorified her face.

“Please don’t think I reject your proffered friendship,” she said, extending her hand.

He would have taken it in both of his, but something in her manner warned him to meet it with the straight, firm grasp of manly assurance.

“Au revoir, mon ami.”  She nodded and was gone.

For several moments he stood by the door that had closed after her.  Then he chuckled, frowned, chuckled again and sat down once more before his work table.

* * * * *

IV

The salons of Mrs. Marteen’s elaborate apartment were gay with flowers and palms, sweet with perfumes and throbbing with music.  Dorothy, an airy, dazzling figure in white, her face radiant with innocent excitement, stood by her mother, whose marble beauty had warmed with happiness as Galatea may have thrilled to life.  Everyone who was anybody crowded the rooms, laughing, gossiping, congratulating, nibbling at dainties and sipping beverages.  The throng ebbed, renewed, passed from room to room, to return again for a final look at the lovely debutante and a final word with her no less attractive mother.  A dozen distinguished men, both young and old, sought to ingratiate themselves, but Dorothy’s joyous heart beat only for the day itself—­her coming out, the launching of her little ship upon the bright waters frequented by Sirens, Argonauts and other delightful and adventurous people hitherto but shadow fictions.  It was as exciting and wonderful as Christmas.  She had been showered with presents, buried in roses.  Everyone was filled with friendly thoughts of which she was the center.  There was no envy, hatred or malice in all the world.

Marcus Gard advanced into the drawing room, the sound of his name, announced at the door, causing sudden and free passage to the center of attraction.  He beamed upon Mrs. Marteen with real pleasure in her stately loveliness, and turned to Dorothy, who, her face alight with greeting, came frankly toward him.  From the moment of their first meeting there had been instant understanding and liking.  Gard took her outstretched hands with an almost fatherly thrill.