She laughed at that, a little raggedly.  Whereupon Rodney looked hurt and protested against this imputation of insincerity against his friend.

“When you know him better,” he said, “you will see he couldn’t say a thing like that unless he meant it.”

“Oh, he meant it, all right,” said Rose.  And she added incomprehensibly, “It isn’t his fault, of course.  It’s just the way the world’s made.”

She had been in good looks to-night, she knew; hurt, humiliated, confronted with a crisis, she had rallied her powers just as she had done at the Randolphs’ dinner.  She had been aware of the color in her cheeks, the brightness in her eyes, the edge to her voice.  Each of the two men had responded to the effect she produced.  Barry had talked with her all the last part of the evening—­brilliantly, eagerly, and had come away saying she had a fine mind.  Her husband had come across to her and put his hand on her bare shoulder.  And the two of them had responded to an identical impulse, although they translated it so differently—­one over the long circuit, the other over the short.

Lacking the clue, Rodney, of course, didn’t understand.  The look in Rose’s eyes softened suddenly.

“Don’t mind, dear;” she said.  “I’m truly glad if they liked me.  It will make things a lot easier.”

At that his eyes lighted up.  “Do you seriously think any one could resist you, you darling?” he said.  “You were a perfect miracle to-night, when they were here.  But now, like this ...”  He came over to her with his arms out.

But she cried out “Don’t!” and sprang away from him.  “Please don’t, Roddy—­not to-night!  I can’t stand it to have you touch me to-night!”

He stared at her, gave a shrug of exasperation, and then turned away.  “You are angry about something then,” he said.  “I thought so when I first came in.  But I honestly don’t know what it’s about.”

“I’m not angry,” she said as steadily as she could.  She mustn’t let it go on like this.  They were getting started all wrong somehow.  “You didn’t want me to touch you, the night when I came to your office, when you were working on that case.  But it wasn’t because you were angry with me.  Well, I’m like that to-night.  There’s something that’s got to be thought out.  Only, I’m not like you.  I can’t do it alone.  I’ve got to have help.  I don’t want to be soothed and comforted like a child, and I don’t want to be made love to.  I just want to be treated like a human being.”

“I see,” he said.  Very deliberately he lighted a cigarette, found himself an ash-tray and settled down astride a spindling little chair.  (It was lucky for Florence McCrea’s peace of mind that she didn’t see him do it.) “All right,” he said.  “Now, come on with your troubles.”  He didn’t say “little troubles,” but his voice did and his smile.  The whole thing would probably turn out to be a question about a housemaid, or a hat.