“Yes,” I answered, with a short laugh.  Of course, I had never told Phyllis of that thousand-dollar check.

“You must run over this winter and see us,” she said.  “I anticipate nothing but dinners, balls and diplomatic receptions.  I have never been there, it will all be new to me.  Think of seeing Egypt, the Holy Lands, Russia, France and Spain, and yet not seeing the very heart of the continent!  Thank goodness, I know the language.”

“And will she not be a sensation?” joined in Ethel.

“A decided sensation,” said I, scrutinizing the beautiful face so near me.  What if they met, as probably they would—­Phyllis and Gretchen?  “Phyllis,” said I, suddenly, “where were you born?”

“Where was I born?” with a wondering little laugh; “in America.  Where did you suppose?”

“Eden,” said I.  “I wasn’t sure, so I asked.”

“I do not know how to take that,” she said, with mock severity.

“Oh, I meant Eden when it was Paradise,” I hastened to say.

“Yes,” put in Pembroke; “please go back, Miss Landors, and begin the world all over again.”

“Phyllis,” said I, in a whisper, “have you ever met that remarkable affinity of yours?” I regretted the words the moment they had crossed my lips.

“Yes, you are changed, as I said the other night,” distrustfully.  “There is something in your voice that is changed.  You have grown cynical.  But your question was impertinent.  Have you found yours?”

I was expecting this.  “Yes,” I said.  “Once I thought I had; now I am sure of it.  Some day I shall tell you an interesting story.”

“We came up to ask you to dine with us this evening,” she said, trailing her brown-gloved finger over the dusty desk.  “Are you at liberty?”

“No.  I have only just met my cousin, and have promised to dine with him.”

“If that is all, bring him along.  I like his face.”

We passed out of the file room.

“Phyllis, we must be going, dear,” said Ethel.

I led Phyllis down the narrow stairs.  A handsome victoria stood at the curb.

“I shall be pleased to hear your story,” said she.

It occurred to me that the tale might not be to her liking.  So I said:  “But it is one of those disagreeable stories; one where all should end nicely, but doesn’t; one which ends, leaving the hero, the heroine, and the reader dissatisfied with the world in general, and the author (who is Fate) in particular.”

I knew that she was puzzled.  She wasn’t quite sure that I was not referring to the old affair.

“If the story is one I never heard before,” suspiciously, “I should like to hear it.”

“And does it not occur to you,” throwing back the robes so that she might step into the victoria, “that fate has a special grudge against me?  Once was not enough, but it must be twice.”

“And she does not love you?  Are you quite sure?  You poor fellow!” She squeezed my hand kindly.  “Shall I be candid with you?” with the faintest flicker of coquetry in her smile.