Apparently Lise had no regrets.  But her premonitions concerning Mr. Frear proved to be justified.  He did not “make good.”  One morning the little office on Faber Street where the sprinklers were displayed was closed, Hampton knew him no more, and the police alone were sincerely regretful.  It seemed that of late he had been keeping all the money for the sprinklers, and spending a good deal of it on Lise.  At the time she accepted the affair with stoical pessimism, as one who has learned what to expect of the world, though her moral sense was not profoundly disturbed by the reflection that she had indulged in the delights of Slattery’s and Gruber’s and a Sunday at “the Beach” at the expense of the Cascade Sprinkler Company of Boston.  Mr. Frear inconsiderately neglected to prepare her for his departure, the news of which was conveyed to her in a singular manner, and by none other than Mr. Johnny Tiernan of the tin shop,—­their conversation throwing some light, not only on Lise’s sophistication, but on the admirable and intricate operation of Hampton’s city government.  About five o’clock Lise was coming home along Fillmore Street after an uneventful, tedious and manless holiday spent in the company of Miss Schuler and other friends when she perceived Mr. Tiernan seated on his steps, grinning and waving a tattered palm-leaf fan.

“The mercury is sure on the jump,” he observed.  “You’d think it was July.”

And Lise agreed.

“I suppose you’ll be going to Tim Slattery’s place tonight,” he went on.  “It’s the coolest spot this side of the Atlantic Ocean.”

There was, apparently, nothing cryptic in this remark, yet it is worth noting that Lise instantly became suspicious.

“Why would I be going out there?” she inquired innocently, darting at him a dark, coquettish glance.

Mr. Tiernan regarded her guilelessly, but there was admiration in his soul; not because of her unquestioned feminine attractions,—­he being somewhat amazingly proof against such things,—­but because it was conveyed to him in some unaccountable way that her suspicions were aroused.  The brain beneath that corkscrew hair was worthy of a Richelieu.  Mr. Tiernan’s estimate of Miss Lise Bumpus, if he could have been induced to reveal it, would have been worth listening to.

“And why wouldn’t you?” he replied heartily.  “Don’t I see all the pretty young ladies out there, including yourself, and you dancing with the Cascade man.  Why is it you’ll never give me a dance?”

“Why is it you never ask me?” demanded Lise.

“What chance have I got, against him?”

“He don’t own me,” said Lise.

Mr. Tiernan threw back his head, and laughed.

“Well, if you’re there to-night, tangoin’ with him and I come up and says, `Miss Bumpus, the pleasure is mine,’ I’m wondering what would happen.”

“I’m not going to Slattery’s to-night,” she declared having that instant arrived at this conclusion.