It was after the ashes had been knocked from the bedtime pipe that Blount left his chair and the secluded corner of the veranda to go down among the parked automobiles on the lawn.  His one recreation—­and it was the only one in which he found the precious fillip of enthusiasm—­was motoring.  There was a choice collection of fine cars in the grouping on the lawn, and Blount had just awakened a sleepy chauffeur to ask him to uncover and exhibit the engine of a freshly imported Italian machine, when a stir at the veranda entrance told him that at least a few of the dancing guests were leaving early.

Being more curious at the moment about the mechanism of the Italian motor than he was about people, he did not realize that he was an intruder until the chauffeur hastily replaced the engine bonnet and began to get his car ready for the road.  Blount stepped back when the little group on the veranda came down the steps preceded by a club footman who was calling the number of the car.  And it was not until he was turning away that he found himself face to face with a very beautiful and very clear-eyed young woman who was buttoning an automobile dust-coat up under her chin.

“Patricia!” he burst out.  And then:  “For Heaven’s sake! you don’t mean to tell me that you have been here all evening?”

Her slow smile gave the impression, not quite of frigidity perhaps, but of that quality of serene self-possession which strangers sometimes mistook for coldness.

“Why shouldn’t I be here?” she asked.  “Didn’t you know that the Cranfords—­the people who are entertaining—­are old friends of ours?”

Blount shook his head.  “No, I didn’t know it; and because I didn’t, I have lost an entire evening.”

“Oh, no; you shouldn’t say that,” she protested.  “The evening was yours to use as you chose.  Mrs. Beverley told me you were here, and she added that you had particularly requested not to be introduced to the Cranfords or their guests.  Besides, you know you don’t care anything about dancing.”

The chauffeur had placed his other passengers in the tonneau, and was trying to crank the motor.  Blount was thankful that the new Italian engine was refusing to take the spark.  The delay was giving him an added moment or two.

“No, I don’t care much for dancing; and you know very well why I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be anybody’s good company to-night,” he said.  Then:  “It was cruel of you to deny me this last evening by not letting me know that you were here.”

“’This last evening’?” she echoed.  “Why ’last’?”

“Because I am leaving Boston and New England to-morrow—­or rather, Monday.  It is the only thing to do.”

“I am sorry you are taking it this way, Evan,” she deprecated, in the sisterly tone that always made him hotly resentful.  “It hurts my sense of proportion.”

“Sometimes I think you haven’t any sense of proportion, Patricia,” he retorted half-morosely.  “If you have, I am sure it is frightfully distorted.”