“Is that true?”

His reply, if inaudible, was as forcible as it was patently an affirmative.

“I don’t believe you!”

“You don’t dare doubt me.”

This time he was clearly articulate, and betrayed a conviction that he had won the day:  an impression borne out by the evident irresolution of the girl, prefacing her abrupt surrender.

“Very well,” she said in a tone of resignation.

“You’ll go?”

“Yes.”

He moved aside, to give her way through the gate.  But she hung back, with a glance for P. Sybarite.

“One moment, please,” she said:  “I must leave a message.”

“Nonsense—!”

She showed displeasure in the lift of her chin.  “I think I’m my own mistress—­as yet.”

He growled indistinguishably.

“You have my promise,” she cut him short coldly.  “Wait for me.”  And she turned back to the house.

Wondering, P. Sybarite went to meet her.  Impulsively she gave him her hand a second time; with as little reflection, he took it in both his own.

“Is there nothing I can do?”

Her voice was broken:  “I don’t know.  I must go—­it’s imperative....  Could you—?...  I wonder!”

“Anything you ask,” he asserted confidently.

Hesitating briefly, in a tone little above a whisper:  “I must go,” she repeated.  “I can’t refuse.  But—­alone.  Do you understand—?”

“You mean—­without him?” P. Sybarite nodded toward the man fuming in the gateway.

“Yes.  If you could suggest something to detain him long enough for me to get into the cab and say one word to the chauffeur—­”

The chest of P. Sybarite swelled.

“Leave it to me,” he said with fine simplicity.

“Molly!” cried the man at the gate.

“Don’t answer,” P. Sybarite advised:  “if you don’t, he’ll lose patience and come to fetch you.  And then—­”

“But I’m afraid he may—­”

“Molly!”

“Don’t you fear for me:  God’s good to the Irish.”

“MOLLY!”

“Do be quiet,” suggested P. Sybarite, not altogether civilly.

The other started as if slapped.

“What’s that?” he barked in a rage.

“I said, hold your tongue.”

“The devil you did!” With a snort the man strode in to the stoop.  “Do you know who you’re talking to?” he demanded wrathfully, towering over P. Sybarite, momentarily forgetful of the girl.

Stepping aside, as if in alarm, she moved behind the fellow, and darted through the gate.

“I don’t,” P. Sybarite admitted amiably; “but your nose annoys me.”

He fixed that feature with an irritating glare.

“You impudent puppy!” stormed the other.  “Who are you?”

“Who—­me?” echoed P. Sybarite in surprise. (The girl was now instructing the chauffeur.) “Why,” he drawled, “I’m the guy that put the point in disappointment.  Sure you’ve heard of me?”