remembered him.

"You only like doing very large buildings, don't you?" she suggested.

"Who told you?"

"Everard."

"Oh! Did old Lucas tell you? Well, he's quite right."

He had a sudden desire to talk to her about the great municipal building
in the north that was soon to be competed for. He yielded to the desire.
She listened, motionless. He gave vent to his regret that Mr. Enwright
absolutely declined to enter for the competition. He said he had had
ideas for it, and would have liked to work for it.

"But why don't you go in for it yourself, George?" she murmured gravely.

"Me!" he exclaimed, almost frightened. "It wouldn't be any good. I'm too
young. Besides----"

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

"Good heavens! You look twenty-five at least! I know I should go in for
it if I were you--if I were a man."

He understood her. She could not talk well. She could not easily be
agreeable; she could easily be rude; she could not play the piano like
the delightful Laurencine. But she was passionate. And she knew the
force of ambition. He admired ambition perhaps more than anything.
Ambition roused him. She was ambitious when she drove the automobile and
endangered his life.... She had called him by his Christian name quite
naturally. There was absolutely no nonsense about her. Now Marguerite
was not in the slightest degree ambitious. The word had no significance
for her.

"I couldn't!" he insisted humbly. "I don't know enough. It's a terrific
affair."

She made no response. But she looked at him, and suddenly he saw the
angel that Irene Wheeler and Laurencine had so enthusiastically spoken
of at the Cafe Royal!

"I couldn't!" he murmured.

He was insisting too much. He was insisting against himself. She had
implanted the idea in his mind. Why had he not thought of it? Certainly
he had not thought of it. Had he lacked courage to think of it? He
beheld the idea as though it was an utterly original discovery,
revolutionary, dismaying, and seductive. His inchoate plans for the
building took form afresh in his brain. And the luxury by which he was
surrounded whipped his ambition till it writhed.

Curious, she said no more! After a moment she sat up and took a sweet.

George saw, in a far corner, Jules Defourcambault talking very quietly
to Irene Wheeler, whose lackadaisical face had become ingenuous and
ardent as she listened to him under the shelter of the dazzling music.
George felt himself to be withi