If he could have seen his gentle Gila a couple of hours later, standing before her mirror again and setting those little sharp teeth into her red lip, the ugly frown between her angry eyes; if he could have heard her low-muttered words, and, worse still, guessed her thoughts about himself and that other girl—­he certainly would have gone out and gnashed his teeth in despair.  If he could have known what was to come of his request to Gila Dare he would have rung up the hospital and had Miss Brentwood moved to another one in hot haste, or, better still, have taken strenuous measures to prevent that visit.  But instead of that he read Mother Marshall’s telegram over again, and lay down to forget Gila Dare utterly, and think pleasant thoughts about the Marshalls.

CHAPTER XII

Gila Dare, in her very most startling costume, lavishly plastered with costly fur, and high-laced, French-heeled boots, came tripping down her father’s steps to the limousine.  She carried a dangling little trick of a hand-bag and a muff big enough for a rug.  Her two eyes looked forth from the rim of the low-squashed, bandage-like fur hat like the eyes of a small, sly mouse that was about to nibble somebody else’s cheese.

By her side a logy youth, with small, blue fish-eyes fixed adoringly on her, sauntered protectingly.  She wore a large bunch of pale-yellow orchids, evidently his gift, and was paying for them with her glances.  One knew by the excited flush on the young man’s face that he had rarely been paid so well.  His eyes took on a glint of intelligence, one might almost say of hope, and he smiled egregiously, egotistically.  His assurance grew with each step he took.  As he opened the door of the luxurious car for her he wore an attitude of one who might possibly be a fiance.  Her little mouse-eyes—­you wouldn’t have dreamed they could ever be large and wistful, nor innocent, either—­twinkled pleasurably.  She was playing her usual game and playing it well.  It was the game for which she was rapidly becoming notorious, young as she was.

“Oh, now, Chaw-! Ree-ally!  Why, I never dreamed it was that bad!  But you mustn’t, you know!  I never gave you permission!”

The chauffeur, sitting stolidly in his uniform, awaiting the word to move, wondered idly what she was up to now.  He was used to seeing the game played all around him day after day, as if he were a stick or a stone, or one of the metal trappings of the car.

“Chawley” Hathaway looked unutterable things, and the little mouse-eyes looked back unutterable things, with that lingering, just-too-long-for-pardoning glance that a certain kind of men and women employ when they want to loiter near the danger-line and toy with vital things.  An impressive hand-clasp, another long, languishing look, just a shade longer this time; then he closed the door, lifted his hat at the mouse-eyed goddess, and the limousine swept away.  They had parted as if something momentous had occurred, and both knew in their hearts that neither had meant anything at all except to play with fire for an instant, like children sporting at lighting a border of forest that has a heart of true homes in its keeping.