“We are keeping your friend waiting, Dorothy,” said Mrs, Garrison, with blasting irony.  “Give him my compliments and say that we trust he may come every day.  He affords us a subject for pleasant discussion, and I am sure Prince Ugo will be as charmed to meet him here as he was in London.”

“Don’t be sarcastic, mamma.  It doesn’t help matters and—­” began Dorothy, almost plaintively.

“Mr. Quentin certainly does not help matters, my dear.  Still, if you will enjoy the comment, the notoriety that he may be generous enough to share with you, I can say no more.  When you are ready to dismiss him, you shall find me your ally.”  She was triumphant because she had scored with sarcasm a point where reason must have fallen far short

“I might tell Rudolf to throw him into the street,” said Dorothy, dolefully, “only I am quite positive Phil would refuse to be thrown by less than three Rudolfs.  But he is expecting you downstairs, mamma.  He asked for you.”

“I cannot see him to-day.  Tell him I shall be only too glad to see him if he calls again,” and there was a deep, unmistaken meaning in the way she said it.

“You will not go down?” Dorothy’s face flushed with something akin to humiliation.  After all, he did not deserve to be treated like a dog.

“I am quite content upstairs,” replied Mrs. Garrison, sweetly.

Dorothy turned from her mother without another word, and as she went down the stairs there was rebellion in her soul; the fires of resistance showed their first tiny tongues in the hot wave that swept through her being.  Quentin was stretched out comfortably in a big chair, his back toward the stairs, his eyes upon the busy avenue below.  She paused for a moment at the foot of the stairs and there was a strange longing to pass her fingers over the thick dark hair.  The thought passed instantaneously, but there was a new shyness in her manner as she approached.

“Hullo,” he said, arising as he heard her footfall.  “Been watching the people drive by.  Pretty smart traps, some of them, too.  The old families that came over in the Ark with Moses—­er, Noah, I should say.”  There was deep concern in the remark, but she was confident that he vaguely understood why she was alone.

“Mamma trusts you will excuse her this morning.  She says she will be glad to see you when you come again.”  She seated herself on a divan near the window, a trifle out of the glaring light of the August sun.  She held in her hand a fan and the bits of paper had disappeared.  “Isn’t it dreadfully warm?”

“Looks like rain, too,” said he, briefly.  Then, with new animation:  “Tell me, what was in that letter?”

“Nothing but nonsense,” she replied, smiling serenely, for she was again a diplomat.

“How dare you!  How dare you write nonsense to me?  But, really, I’d like to know what it was.  You’ll admit I have a right to be curious.”

“It pleases me to see you curious.  I believe it is the first time I ever saw you interested in anything.  Quite novel, I assure you.”