something in his eyes,
whether he found things wholly good. She was just a little suspicious
of romances. Her own had worn thin so quickly. "Good-by, my dear," she
said. "Don't forget you're dining with me to-morrow."

"Not likely."

"What are you doing to-night?"

"Going to bed at nine o'clock to sleep the clock round. I'm awfully
tired."

She stood quite still for many minutes after Alice had gone, and shut
her eyes. In a quick series of moving pictures she saw thousands of
little lights and swaying people and clashing colors, and caught
snatches of lilting music and laughter. She was tired, and something
that seemed like a hand pressed her forehead tightly, but the near-by
sound of incessant traffic sent her blood spinning, and she opened her
eyes and gave a little laugh and went out.

Martin was on his way downstairs. He drew up abruptly. "Oh, hello!" he
said.

"Oh, hello!" said Joan.

He was in evening clothes. His face had lost its tan and his eyes their
clear country early-to-bed look. "You've had a tea-fight, I see. I
peered into the drawing-room an hour ago and backed out, quick."

"Why? They were all consumed with curiosity about you. Alice has
advertised our romantic story, you see." She clasped her hands together
and adopted a pose in caricature of the play heroine in an ecstasy of
egomania.

But Martin's laugh was short and hollow. He wasn't amused. "How did you
get on?" he asked.

"Lost seventy dollars--that's all. Three-handed bridge with Grandfather
and Grandmother was not a good apprenticeship. I must have a few
lessons. D'you like my frock? Come up. You can't see it from there."

And he came up and looked at her as she turned this way and that. How
slim she was, and alluring! The fire in him flamed up, and his eyes
flickered. "Awful nice!" he said.

"You really like it?"

"Yes, really. You look beyond criticism in anything, always."

Joan stretched out her hand. "Thank you, Marty," she said. "You say and
do the most charming things that have ever been said and done."

He bent over the long-fingered hand. His pride begged him not to let
her see the hunger and pain that were in his eyes.

"Going out?" she asked.

Martin gave a careless glance at one of B. C. Koekkoek's inimitable
Dutch interiors that hung between two pieces of Flemish tapestry. His
voice showed some of his eagerness, though. "I was going to have dinner
with some men at the University Club, but I can chuck that and