The letter struck a false note in the harmony of the day.  It annoyed Courtland beyond expression that he had made such a blunder as to send Gila after Bonnie.  He could not understand why Gila had not had better discernment than to think Bonnie an object of charity.  His indignation was still burning over the trouble and peril her action had brought to Bonnie.  Yet he hated to have his opinion of Gila shaken.  He had arranged it in his mind that she was a sweet and lovely girl, one in every way similar to Solveig the innocent, and he did not care to change it.  He tried to remember Gila’s conventional upbringing, and realize that she had no conception of a girl out of her own social circle other than as a menial to whom to condescend.  The vision of her loveliness in rose and silver, with her prayer-book “in her ’kerchief” was still dimly forcing him to be at least polite and accept her letter of apology for her failure, as he could but suppose it was sincerely meant.

Then all at once a new fact dawned upon him.  The invitation had been for Saturday evening!  This was Sunday evening!  And now what was he to do?  He might call her up and apologize, but what could he say.  Bill Ward might have told her by this time that he knew the letter had been received.  A blunt confession that he had forgotten to read it might offend, yet what else could he do?  It was most annoying!

He went to the telephone as soon as he reached the college.  The fellows had already gone down to the evening meal.  He could hear the clink of china and silver in the distant dining-room.  It was a good time to ’phone.

A moment, and Gila’s cool contralto answered:  “Hel-lo-oo!” There was something about the way that Gila said that word that conveyed a whole lot of things, instantly putting the caller at his distance, but placing the lady on a pedestal before which it became most desirable to bow.

“This is Paul Courtland!”

“Oh!  Mr. Courtland!” Her voice was freezing.

But Courtland was not used to being frozen out.  “I owe you an apology, Miss Dare,” he said, with dignity.  He didn’t care how blunt he sounded now.  It always angered him to be frozen!  “Your letter reached me just as I was leaving here last evening on a very important errand.  I put it in my pocket, but I have been so occupied that it escaped my mind utterly until just now.  I hope I did not cause you much inconvenience.”

“Oh, it really didn’t mattah in the least!” answered Gila, indifferently.  Nothing could be colder or more distant than her voice, and yet there was something in it this time, a subtle lure, that exasperated.  A teasing little something at his spirit demanded to be set right in her eyes—­to have her the suppliant rather than himself.

“I really am awfully ashamed,” he said, in quite a boyish, humble tone, and then gasped at himself.  What was there about Gila that always “got a fellow’s goat”?