“He’s gone,” she said to herself despairingly, and listlessly opened the door and stepped within.

“Why, my child,” cried the mother, “how white you are!  Are you—­has anything—­”

“White?” exclaimed Sellers.  “It’s gone like a flash; ’twasn’t serious.  Already she’s as red as the soul of a watermelon!  Sit down, dear, sit down—­goodness knows you’re welcome.  Did you have a good time?  We’ve had great times here—­immense.  Why didn’t Miss Belle come?  Mr. Tracy is not feeling well, and she’d have made him forget it.”

She was content now; and out from her happy eyes there went a light that told a secret to another pair of eyes there and got a secret in return.  In just that infinitely small fraction of a second those two great confessions were made, received, and perfectly understood.  All anxiety, apprehension, uncertainty, vanished out of these young people’s hearts and left them filled with a great peace.

Sellers had had the most confident faith that with the new reinforcement victory would be at this last moment snatched from the jaws of defeat, but it was an error.  The talk was as stubbornly disjointed as ever.  He was proud of Gwendolen, and liked to show her off, even against Miss Belle Thompson, and here had been a great opportunity, and what had she made of it?  He felt a good deal put out.  It vexed him to think that this Englishman, with the traveling Briton’s everlasting disposition to generalize whole mountain ranges from single sample-grains of sand, would jump to the conclusion that American girls were as dumb as himself—­ generalizing the whole tribe from this single sample and she at her poorest, there being nothing at that table to inspire her, give her a start, keep her from going to sleep.  He made up his mind that for the honor of the country he would bring these two together again over the social board before long.  There would be a different result another time, he judged.  He said to himself, with a deep sense of injury, “He’ll put in his diary—­they all keep diaries—­he’ll put in his diary that she was miraculously uninteresting—­dear, dear, but wasn’t she!  I never saw the like—­and yet looking as beautiful as Satan, too—­and couldn’t seem to do anything but paw bread crumbs, and pick flowers to pieces, and look fidgety.  And it isn’t any better here in the Hall of Audience.  I’ve had enough; I’ll haul down my flag—­the others may fight it out if they want to.”

He shook hands all around and went off to do some work which he said was pressing.  The idolaters were the width of the room apart; and apparently unconscious of each other’s presence.  The distance got shortened a little, now.  Very soon the mother withdrew.  The distance narrowed again.  Tracy stood before a chromo of some Ohio politician which had been retouched and chain-mailed for a crusading Rossmore, and Gwendolen was sitting on the sofa not far from his elbow artificially absorbed in examining a photograph album that hadn’t any photographs in it.