“You know what it means?” She stared at him with hard, level eyes.  “I’m not a moderate person—­I can’t do things by halves.  No!  I see you don’t think of that, you are mad over this Garavel girl.  But you can’t get her.”  Something in his dazzled, love-foolish smile enraged her.  “So!  You are planning even now.  Well, then, understand there are practical reasons, political reasons, why you can’t have her.  If Garavel were insane enough to consent, others would not.  She is part of—­the machine, and there are those who will not consent to see all their work spoiled.  That is altogether apart from me, you understand.  I can build, and I can destroy—­”

“There’s nothing more to say,” he interrupted her, quietly, “so I’d better excuse myself.”

“Yes!  I would prefer to be alone.”

When he had bowed himself away she crushed the fan in her hand, staring out across the lights of the city below, and it was thus that Cortlandt found her a few moments later, as he idled along the veranda, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette between his lips.  He dropped into the empty chair beside her, saying: 

“Hello!  Thought you had this with Anthony?”

“I had.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“There is no trouble.”  She began to rock, while he studied her profile; then, conscious of his look, she inquired, “Aren’t you dancing?”

“No, just looking on, as usual.  I prefer to watch.  You have broken your fan, it seems.”  He flung his cigarette into the darkness and, reaching out, took the fan from her hand.  She saw that his lips were drawn back in a peculiar smile.

“Well!  Is that so strange?” she answered, sharply.  “You seem—­” She broke off and looked deliberately away from him.

“Row, eh?” he inquired, softly.

She could barely hold back her hatred of the man.  He had worked powerfully upon her nerves of late, and she was half hysterical.

“Why do you take pleasure in annoying me?” she cried.  “What ails you these last few weeks?  I can’t stand it—­I won’t—­”

“Oh!  Pardon!  One quarrel an evening is enough.  I should have known better.”

She turned upon him at this, but once more checked the words that clamored for utterance.  Her look, however, was a warning.  She bit her lip and said nothing.

“Too bad you and he don’t hit it off better; he likes me.”

There was no answer.

“He’s giving me a party after the dance, sort of a gratitude affair.  A delicate way to acknowledge a debt, eh?”

She saw that his hand shook as he lit a fresh cigarettes, and the strangeness of his tone made her wonder.  “You know very well it is Runnels’ doing,” she said.

“Oh, there are six of them in it altogether, but Anthony originated the little surprise.  It’s intended for you, of course.”

“I don’t see it.  Are you going?”

“I accepted.”

“What do you mean by that?”