him. He heard a creaking of brakes and saw the back wheels of the
machine lock as it came to a stop. He looked up. Gibson was at the
wheel, Consuello at his side.

"Mr. Gallant," Gibson called.

John stepped forward. Gibson leaned toward him, his hand outstretched.

"Miss Carrillo has reminded me I made rather a fool of myself back there
at the table," he said, smiling. "Perhaps you may understand the
position I was in. I offer my apologies."

John gripped his hand.

"Thanks," said Gibson. "You understand how it is."

"Yes," assented John, without really knowing what his answer meant.

"Sorry there isn't room to give you a lift to town," Gibson said, racing
the motor and shifting the gear. As the machine moved away John saw
Consuello smile and there was an echo of gladness in his heart.

But a disconcerting thought crept into John's mind as he watched
Gibson's machine disappear in the traffic. Had she only been kind to him
because of an instinctive sympathy, born of good breeding, for his
embarrassment there on the lawn? Was she laughing now with Gibson,
telling him of her experience with a flirtatious or sickly sentimental
cub reporter? Something in the manner of Gibson as he offered his
apology caused this suspicion to spring into his mind against her.

Yes, that was it. She had only pitied him, his awkwardness, his apparent
discomfort, his shabby suit, his worn shoes. She had led him artfully
into telling her she was beautiful and that he dreamed--he cursed
himself as he remembered his words, "a rather silly, hopeless, golden
sort of dream,"--of meeting her again. Meet him again? Why, she would
probably forget him tomorrow unless she recalled how he had acted and
told it as something to laugh over.

What a fool, what a weak, mawkish, insipid fool he had made of himself!

He burned with humiliation. Even if she had been sincere, what would she
think of him when Gibson told her of his fight at Vernon with Battling
Rodriguez? He could see her, in his imagination, assuring Gibson that
had she known he was a prize fighter, a brute who fought with his fists
for money, she would never have spoken to him. Of course, Gibson would
not tell her why he had fought at Vernon. He felt this instinctively.

He pictured her and Gibson together at all sorts of places, on a yacht
cruising around Catalina island, on the links at a country club, a ball
at the Ambassador, racing along the coast road to Santa Barbara in
Gibson'