ality, dances and dinners and
receptions and things. If there is one thing Reggie and I will quarrel
about that will be it. He has always been invited everywhere and he
enjoys the niceness of conventionality."

He was glad that there was not complete compatibility between her and
Gibson. It was selfish and wrong for him to rejoice that she and Gibson
were not perfectly suited in their likes and dislikes and he knew it,
but nevertheless it gladdened him.

"I nearly died of fright that day at the lawn fete, when I met you," he
said. "I believe I would have done something disgraceful to that servant
who was asking me to leave if you hadn't appeared."

"You told me you thought Reggie to be a villain," she reminded him,
laughing. "You don't think him one now, do you?"

How close he came to telling her then what he had reason to believe
Gibson actually was, a villain beyond all understanding, she never knew.

"No," he lied.

She stopped at a gateway formed by a gap in a hedge of spicy scented
boxwood that paralleled the sidewalk.

"Here we are," she said, turning in.

He saw a rose-shaded light in the window of a small house set far back
from the street.

"Betty is waiting for me," she explained. "I want you to meet her."

On each side of the pathway leading back to the house was a rose garden
with the bushes set at precise intervals. The rose garden ended half way
back from the sidewalk. Before the house, for the entire width of the
lot and a dozen paces deep, was closely cropped grass. Flat stones, set
into the lawn like the footprints of an elephant, provided an artistic
path to the door, which was massive in size and of unfinished stained
oak. The flanges of the hinges were of beaten iron held in place by
studded bolts. A quaint knocker was above the handle to the latch.

"You'll pardon me for a moment?" Consuello asked, opening the door and
stepping inside, returning a moment later to hold it open for him to
enter.

The room was exceptionally large, with rafters across the ceiling. At
one end was a huge fireplace and rugs were scattered over a smooth but
unpolished floor. Betty rose from an easy chair as he entered. She had
been reading. John saw that she was slender, dark-eyed, rather pretty.

"Betty, this is Mr. Gallant," said Consuello by way of an introduction.

"Consuello has spoken of you, often," said Betty, advancing with a
friendly smile and an outstretched hand. Mentally John thanked her for
th