Diana rose nobly to do battle.  “What nonsense, Mr. Huntingdon!  As if a man like Shakespeare—­” She paused as if struck by a sudden thought.  “That’s a curious attitude for a notorious woman hater to take, Mr. Secretary.”

Enoch laid down his fork.  “Do you think I’m a woman hater, Miss Allen?” looking steadily into Diana’s eyes.

“I didn’t mean to be so personal.  Just like a woman!” sighed Diana.

“But do you think I’m a woman hater?” insisted Enoch.

Diana looked up earnestly.  “Please, Mr. Huntingdon, if our friendship is to ripen, you must not force it.”

Enoch’s face grew suddenly white.  There swept over him with bitter realism a conception of the falseness of the position into which he was permitting himself to drift.  He answered his own question with an attempted lightness of tone.

“I can never marry, but I don’t hate women.”

Diana’s chin lifted and Enoch leaned forward quickly.  All the aplomb won through years of suffering and experience deserted him.  For the moment he was again the boy in the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

“Oh, I am stupid, but let me explain.  I want you to—­”

“Please don’t!” said Diana coldly.  “I need no warning, Mr. Huntingdon.”

“Oh, my dear Miss Allen, you must not be offended!  What can I say?”

“You might ask me if it’s not time to go home,” suggested Diana, coolly.  “You mustn’t forget that I’m a wage earner.”

Enoch bit his lip and turned to sign the check.  Then he followed Diana to the door.  Here they came upon the Indian Commissioner and his wife, and all opportunity for explanations was gone for the two invited themselves to walk along to Diana’s rooming place.  Enoch went up the steps with Diana, however, and asked her tensely: 

“Will you lunch with me to-morrow, Miss Allen, that I may explain myself?”

“Thank you, no.  I shall be very busy to-morrow, Mr. Huntingdon.”

“Let me call here in the evening, then.”

“I’d rather you wouldn’t,” answered the girl, coldly.  “Good night, Mr. Secretary,” and she was gone.

Enoch stood as if struck dumb, then he made an excuse to Mr. and Mrs. Watkins, and started homeward.  The night was stifling.  When Jonas let him into the house, his collar was limp and his hair lay wet on his forehead.

“I’m going to New York to-night, Jonas,” he said huskily.

“What’s happened, boss?” asked Jonas breathlessly, as he followed Enoch up the stairs.

“Nothing!  I’m going to give myself a day’s rest.  Give me something to travel in,” pulling off his coat.

“I’m going with you, boss,” not stirring, his black eyes rolling.

“No, I’m going alone, Jonas.  Here, I’ll pack my own grip.  You go on out.”  This in a voice that sent Jonas, however reluctantly, into the hall, where he walked aimlessly up and down, wringing his hands.