the reaction from her moment of womanly pity would strand her still
farther on the rocks of her worldliness. He was detained on his way to
the hotel so that it was nearly twelve when he arrived. It was a
relief to find Carey alone. There was an appealing look in her eyes;
but David felt that he could bear no expression of sympathy, and he
trusted she would obey the subtle message flashed from his own.

With keen insight she read his unspoken appeal, but a high courage
dwelt in the spirit of the little Puritan of colonial ancestry, and
she summoned its full strength.

"David," she asked, "did you think I was ignorant of your early life
until I read those banners last night?"

"I thought," he said, flushing and taken by surprise, "that you might
have long ago heard something, but to have it recalled in so
sensational a way when you were entertaining me at dinner--"

[Illustration: "_It was a relief to find Carey alone_"]

"David, the first day I met you, when I was six years old, Mrs.
Randall told us of your father. I didn't know just what a prison was,
but I supposed it something very grand, and it widened the halo of
romance that my childish eyes had cast about you. The morning after
you had nominated Mr. Hume I saw your aunt at the hotel, and she told
me, for she said some day I might hear it from strangers and not
understand. When I saw those banners it was not so much sympathy for
you that distressed me; I was thinking of your mother, and regretting
that she could not be alive to hear you speak, and see what her
bravery had done for you."

David had to summon all his control and his recollection of her
Virginia ancestors to refrain from telling her what was in his heart.
Mrs. Winthrop helped him by her entrance at this crucial point.

"Good morning, David," she said suavely. "Carey, Fletcher is waiting
for you at the elevator. Your father stopped him. I told him you would
be out directly."

"I had an engagement to drive with him," explained Carey. "I thought
you would come earlier."

"I am due at a committee meeting," he said, in a courteous but aloof
manner.

"We start in the morning, you know," she reminded him. "Won't you dine
here with us to-night?"

"I am sorry," he refused. "It will be impossible."

"Arthur is going to a club for luncheon," said Mrs. Winthrop, when
Carey had gone into the adjoining room, "and I shall be alone unless
you will take pity on my loneliness. I won't detain you a momen