“Yes; I know,” he said gently, as she paused, looking at him steadily, but with clouded eyes.  He read into that “but” a world of opportunities; a theater of her own—­the backing of a powerful newspaper—­wealth—­and all, if she so willed it, without interruption to her professional career.

“Would you think any the less of me?” she asked wistfully.

“Would you think any the less of yourself?” he countered.

The blossoming spray broke under her hand.  “Ah, yes; that’s the question after all, isn’t it?” she murmured.

Meantime, Gardner, the eternal journalist, fostering a plan of his own, was gathering material from Guy Mallory who had come in late.

“What gets me,” he said, looking over at the host, “is how he can do a day’s work with all this social powwow going on.”

“A day’s?  He does three days’ work in every one.  He’s the hardest trained mind in the business.  Why, he could sit down here this minute, in the middle of this room, and dictate an editorial while keeping up his end in the general talk.  I’ve seen him do it.”

“He must be a wonder at concentration.”

“Concentration?  If he didn’t invent it, he perfected it.  Tell you a story.  Ban doesn’t go in for any game except polo.  One day some of the fellows at The Retreat got talking golf to him—­”

“The Retreat?  Good Lord!  He doesn’t belong to The Retreat, does he?”

“Yes; been a member for years.  Well, they got him to agree to try it.  Jim Tamson, the pro—­he’s supposed to be the best instructor in America—­was there then.  Banneker went out to the first tee, a 215-yard hole, watched Jim perform his show-em-how swing, asked a couple of questions.  ‘Eye on the ball,’ says Jim.  ’That’s nine tenths of it.  The rest is hitting it easy and following through.  Simple and easy,’ says Jim, winking to himself.  Banneker tries two or three clubs to see which feels easiest to handle, picks out a driving-iron, and slams the ball almost to the edge of the green.  Chance?  Of course, there was some luck in it.  But it was mostly his everlasting ability to keep his attention focused.  Jim almost collapsed.  ’First time I ever saw a beginner that didn’t top,’ says he.  ‘You’ll make a golfer, Mr. Banneker.’

“‘Not me,’ says Ban.  ‘This game is too easy.  It doesn’t interest me.’  He hands Jim a twenty-dollar bill, thanks him, goes in and has his bath, and has never touched a golf-stick since.”

Gardner had been listening with a kindling eye.  He brought his fist down on his knee.  “You’ve told me something!” he exclaimed.

“Going to try it out on your own game?”

“Not about golf.  About Banneker.  I’ve been wondering how he managed to establish himself as an individual figure in this big town.  Now I begin to see it.  It’s publicity; that’s what it is.  He’s got the sense of how to make himself talked about.  He’s picturesque.  I’ll bet Banneker’s first and last golf shot is a legend in the clubs yet, isn’t it?”