“Love her!  Pshaw!” Though he laughed out the words there was an angry flush in his face.  “Do you think I’m the kind of man to love a mere singing animal?  And besides,” he concluded with a brutal cynicism which repelled her sharply, “I’m of an economical turn, you know, and the love of such women comes too high.  I’ve seen them eat up a fellow’s income as if it were a box of Huyler’s.”  The words were no sooner uttered than his mood changed quickly and he was on his feet.  “But I didn’t mean to give you the whole morning, sweetheart, I merely looked in to say that I wanted you to come out with me in the car this afternoon.  There’s a fine breeze blowing.”

For a thoughtful moment she hesitated before she answered.  “I told Roger Adams that I should be at home,” she returned, “but I dare say he won’t mind not seeing me.”

“Oh, I dare say,” he retorted gayly.  “Well, I’ll pick you up, then, on the stroke of five.”

As he left the room she went over to the window, and when he came out a little later, he turned upon the sidewalk to glance up at her and wave his hand.  She was happy, perfectly happy, she told herself, as she looked eagerly after the last glimpse of his figure; but even while she framed the thought into words, she was conscious that her heart throbbed high in disappointment and that her eyes were already blind with tears.

When Adams sent up his card, at twenty minutes before five o’clock, she lingered a few moments before going downstairs in her motoring coat and veil.  In response to her embarrassed excuses, he made only a casual expression of regret for the visit he had missed.

“It’s a fine afternoon—­just right for a run,” he remarked, adding after a brief hesitation.  “It’s the proper thing, I suppose, to offer you congratulations, but I’m a poor hand, as you know, at making pretty speeches.  I wish you happiness with all my heart—­that’s about all there is to say—­isn’t it?”

“That’s about all,” she echoed, “and at least if I’m not happy I shall have only myself to blame.”

The silence that followed seemed to them both unnatural and constrained; and he broke it at last with a remark which sounded to him, while he uttered it, almost irrelevant.

“I’ve never seen much of Kemper, but I always liked him.”

“I know,” she nodded, “you were chums at College.”

“Oh, hardly that, but we knew each other pretty well.  He’s a lucky chap and I hope he has the sense to see it.”

“There’s no doubt whatever of his sense!” she laughed.  Then, growing suddenly serious, she leaned toward him with her old earnest look.  “No one has ever known him, I think, just as I do,” she went on, “because no one understands how wonderfully good he really is.  He’s so good,” she finished almost triumphantly, as if she had overcome by her assertion a point which he disputed, “that there are times when he makes me feel positively wicked.”