t cure in the northern part of the state. He couldn't fancy
meeting him again without desiring to add to the punishment he had
already given. The man was impossible. He had sneaked from that room,
leaving the note in George's hands, the check in his own pocket. And the
check had been cashed. No madness of excitement could account for that.

It wasn't until summer that he ran into him, and with a black temper saw
Sylvia at his side. If she only knew! She ought to know. It increased
his bad humour that he couldn't tell her.

He regretted the necessity that had made such a meeting possible. It
had, however, for a long time impressed him. Even flabby old Blodgett
had noticed, and had advised less work and more play. To combat his
feeling of staleness, the relaxing of his long, carefully conditioned
muscles, George had forced himself to play polo at a Long Island club
into which he had hurried because of his skill at the game, or to take
an occasional late round of golf, which he didn't care for particularly
but which he managed very well in view of his inexperience. It was while
he was ordering dinner with Goodhue one night at the Long Island club
that Sylvia and Dalrymple drove up with the Sinclairs. The older pair
came straight to the two, while Sylvia and Dalrymple followed with an
obvious reluctance.

"We spirited her away for the night," Mrs. Sinclair explained.

She turned to Sylvia.

"My dear, I'll see that you don't cloister yourself any more. Your
father's going on for years."

Yet it occurred to George, as he looked at her, that her cloistering had
accomplished no change. The alteration in Dalrymple, on the other hand,
was striking. George, as he met him with a difficult ease of manner,
quite as if nothing had happened, couldn't account for it; for the
light-headed look had gone from Dalrymple's eyes, and much of the stamp
of dissipation from his face. His hands, too, were quiet. Was it
credible he had forgotten the struggle in George's office? No. He had
cashed the check; yet his manner suggested a blank memory except,
perhaps, for its too-pronounced cordiality.

There was nothing for it but a dinner together. The Sinclairs expected
it, and couldn't be made to understand why it should embarrass any one.
Dalrymple really helped matters. His mind worked clearly, and he could,
George had to acknowledge, exert a certain charm when he tried.
Moreover, he didn't drink, even refusing the cocktail a waiter offered