Then another thought occurred to him.  The girl whom he could never have won for a mistress might well be worth making his wife.  Why not marry her?  The idea had never entered his head, but it was not so preposterous as it at first seemed.  He had jested with Hadley about looking for a wife, and at times had even thought seriously about getting married.  Yet it was not a thing to be undertaken lightly.  As head of a big railroad system, he had a certain position to keep up.  This girl was poor—­an obscure stenographer.  There was no telling what objectionable relatives she might have.  When a man marries, he marries his wife’s family!  How society would laugh!  Well, what if it did?  He had boasted to Hadley that he defied the conventions.  What did he care for society?  There was many a woman in society who, if the walls of alcoves could talk and it came to a show-down on conduct, would not dare hold up her head in presence of Virginia Blaine.  He certainly liked the girl well enough to marry her.  He could hardly say that he loved her.  One does not love at first sight, no matter what the dime novelists say—­and what, perhaps, was more important, he respected her.  Could every man say as much of the woman he married?  Love would come later, he had no doubt of that, and after all, he thought to himself, it was not so much a question of “should he marry her?” as of “would she marry him?”

Once he made up his mind, Robert Stafford was not the kind of man to let the grass grow under his feet.  He started on a new campaign—­an honorable campaign, this time, on which he was willing to stake his happiness.  He was puzzled, at first, how to go about it.  A clever way, he thought, would be to get her more interested in himself, in his home.  He would ask her to visit his Riverside house and see his art treasures, his pictures.  Of course, it was not likely that she would consent to go alone.  He would tell her to bring her sister.  If he invited the sister she could hardly refuse.

One afternoon Virginia was at work on some typewriting in his rooms at the hotel.  A number of letters had accumulated and they had put in the whole afternoon at dictation.  Stafford had paid little attention to her, being wholly absorbed in business detail, but about four o’clock he declared he was tired, even if she were not, and, despite her protests, insisted on telephoning downstairs and ordering tea to be sent up.  When it was brought in, daintily served with cake on a silver salver, and the waiter had withdrawn, he courteously drew up a chair and asked her to serve.  She must be hostess, he said laughingly.

Now the business on hand was over, his manner underwent a complete change; in place of the employer, she saw a polished man of the world entertaining a social equal.  Virginia accepted his hospitality and politeness graciously, without awkwardness or false modesty, and before long found herself laughing and chatting with him on terms of delightful intimacy.