“Give me my fan——­”

“I can’t reach——­”

“You can stand on that bench.”

He stood on it, and she could see his figure faintly defined.

“I am afraid I am still too far away.  Lean over a bit, Becky—­and I’ll hand it to you.”

She stretched her white arm down into the darkness.  Her hand was caught in a strong clasp.  “Becky, give me just five minutes by the fountain.”

“Let me go.”

“Not until you promise that you’ll come.”

“I shall never promise.”

“Then I shall keep your fan——­”

“Keep it—­I have others.”

“But you will think about this one, because I have it.”  There was a note of triumph in his soft laugh.

He kissed her finger-tips and reluctantly released her hand.  “The fan is mine, then, until you ask for it.”

“I shall never ask.”

“Who knows?  Some day you may—­who knows?” and he was gone.

He could not have chosen a better way in which to fire her imagination.  His voice in the dark, his laughing triumph, the daring theft of her fan.  Her heart followed him, seeing him a Conqueror even in this, seeing him a robber with his rose-colored booty, a Robin Hood of the Garden, a Dick Turpin among the tuberoses.

The spirit of Romance went with him.  The things that Pride had done for her looked gray and dull.  She had promised to marry Randy, and felt that she faced a somewhat sober future.  Set against it was all that George had given her, the sparkle and dash and color of his ardent pursuit.

He was not worth a thought, yet she thought of him.  She was still thinking of him when Randy came back.

“Did you get your fan?” he asked.

“No.  Never mind, Randy.  I will have one of the servants look for it.”

“But I do mind.”

She hesitated.  “Well, don’t look for it now.  Let’s go in and join the others.  Are they going down to supper?”

Supper was served in the great Hunt Room, which was below the ballroom.  It was a historic and picturesque place, and had been the scene for over a century of merry-making before and after the fox-hunts for which the county was famous.  There were two great fireplaces, almost hidden to-night by the heaped-up fruits of the harvest, orange and red and green, with cornstalks and goldenrod from the fields for decorations.

Becky found Mary alone at a small table in a corner.  Truxton had left her to forage for refreshments and Randy followed him.

“Are you having a good time, Mary?”

Mary did not answer at once.  Then she said, bravely, “I don’t quite fit in, Becky.  I am still an—­outsider.”

“Oh, Mary!”

“I am not—­unhappy, and Truxton is such a dear.  But I shall be glad to get home, Becky.”

“But you look so lovely, Mary, and everybody seems so kind.”

“They are, but underneath I am just plain—­Mary Flippin.  They know that, and so do I, and it will take them some time to forget it.”