“It doesn’t seem possible that you are the same Dorothy Garrison I used to know,” he said, reflectively.

“Have I changed so much?” she asked, and there was in her manner an icy barrier that would have checked a less confident man than Philip Quentin.

“In every way.  You were charming in those days.”

“And not charming now, I infer.”

“You are more than charming now.  That is hardly a change, however, is it?  Then, you were very pretty, now you are beautiful.  Then, you were—­”

“I don’t like flattery, Phil,” she said, hurt by what she felt to be an indifferent effort on his part to please her vanity.

“I am quite sure you remember me well enough to know that I never said nice things unless I meant them.  But, now that I think of it, it is the height of impropriety to speak so plainly even to an old friend, and an old—­er—­chum.”

“Won’t you have a cup of tea?” she asked, as calmly as if he were the merest stranger and had never seen her till this hour.

“A dozen, if it pleases you,” he said, laughingly, looking straight into the dark eyes she was striving so hard to keep cold and unfriendly.

“Then you must come another day,” she answered, brightly.

“I cannot come to-morrow,” he said.

“I did not say ‘to-morrow.’”

“But I’ll come on Friday,” he went on, decisively.  She looked concerned for an instant and then smiled.

“Lady Marnham will give you tea on Friday.  I shall not be at home,” she said.

“But I am going back to New York next week,” he said, confidently.

“Next week?  Are you so busy?”

“I am not anxious to return, but my man Turk says he hates London.  He says he’ll leave me if I stay here a month.  I can’t afford to lose Turk.”

“And he can’t afford to lose you.  Stay, Phil; the Saxondales are such jolly people.”

“How about the tea on Friday?”

“Oh, that is no consideration.”

“But it is, you know.  You used to give me tea every day in the week.”  He saw at once that he had gone beyond the lines, and drew back wisely.  “Let me come on Friday, and we’ll have a good, sensible chat.”

“On that one condition,” she said, earnestly.

“Thank you.  Good-bye.  I see Lady Frances is ready to go.  Evidently I have monopolized you to a somewhat thoughtless extent.  Everybody is looking daggers at me, including the prince, who came in ten minutes ago.”

He arose and held her hand for a moment at parting.  Her swift, abashed glance toward Prince Ugo, whose presence she had not observed, did not escape his eyes.  She looked up and saw the peculiar smile on Quentin’s lips, and there was deep meaning in her next remark to him: 

“You will meet the prince here on Friday.  I shall ask him to come early, that he may learn to know you better.”

“Thank you.  I’d like to know him better.  At what hour is he to come?”