“Did you order the carriage, as I asked?”

“Yes, ma’am; it’s at the door.”

“Thank you.”  And Margaret turned upon an overwhelmed and dazzled Craig.  He did not dream that she had calculated it all with a view to impressing him—­and, if he had, the effect would hardly have been lessened.  Whether planned or not, were not toilette and accent, and butler and carriage, all realities?  Nor did he suspect shrewd calculations upon snobbishness when she said:  “I was in such haste to dress that I hurt my poor maid’s hand as she was lacing my boot”—­she thrust out one slender, elegantly-clad foot—­ “no, buttoning it, I mean.”  Oh, these ladies, these ladies of the new world—­and the old—­that are so used to maids and carriages and being waited upon that they no more think of display in connection with them than one would think of boasting two legs or two eyes!

The advantage from being in the act of putting on gloves began at the very outset.  It helped to save her from deciding a mode of salutation.  She did not salute him at all.  It made the meeting a continuation, without break, of their previous meeting.

“How do you like my new dress?” she asked, as she drew the long part of her glove up her round, white arm.

“Beautiful,” he stammered.

From the hazel eyes shot a shy-bold glance straight into his; it was as if those slim, taper fingers of hers had twanged the strings of the lyre of his nerves.  “You despise all this sort of trumpery, don’t you?”

“Sometimes a man says things he don’t mean,” he found tongue to utter.

“I understand,” said she sympathetically, and he knew she meant his note.  But he was too overwhelmed by his surroundings, by her envelope of aristocracy, too fascinated by her physical charm, too flattered by being on such terms with such a personage, to venture to set her right.  Also, she gave him little chance; for in almost the same breath she went on:  “I’ve been in such moods!—­since yesterday afternoon—­like the devils in Milton, isn’t it?—­that are swept from lands of ice to lands of fire?—­or is it in Dante?  I never can remember.  We must go straight off, for I’m late.  You can come, too—­it’s only a little meeting about some charity or other.  All rich people, of course—­except poor me.  I’m sure I don’t know why they asked me.  I can give little besides advice.  How handsome you are to-day, Joshua!”

It was the first time she had called him by his first name.  She repeated it—­“Joshua—­Joshua”—­as when one hits upon some particularly sweet and penetrating chord at the piano, and strikes it again, and yet again.

They were in the carriage, being whirled toward the great palace of Mrs. Whitson, the latest and grandest of plutocratic monuments that have arisen upon the ruins of the old, old-fashioned American Washington.  And she talked incessantly—­a limpid, sparkling, joyous strain.  And either her hand sought his or his hers; at any rate, he found himself holding her hand.  They were almost there before he contrived to say, very falteringly:  “You got my note?”