Ormsby frowned. Wouldn’t she be serious in the face of death, even? Then he remembered the interrupted conversation. “The alcohol spoiled the pretty little situation I had arranged for my book,” he said, smiling. “Your book!” echoed Jane, staring at him. “Yes, you know the question I was about to ask you. Your answer was rather important to me, but you can give it some other time. I advise you now to go straight home and lie down. There must have been some nervous shock.” “You’re mistaken,” said Jane, who was in truth looking very pale. “I never felt less nervous in my life, and we mustn’t let the book suffer. Now, if you’ll repeat the question--I’m afraid”--penitently--“I wasn’t paying much attention to what you were saying.” “Oh, well, I fancy you caught the idea of the sort of man I sketched. Would you give up everything for his sake, if you loved him?” Jane rose and deliberately pinned on her hat, leisurely consulting a tiny chatelaine mirror after she had done so. Then she looked at Ormsby maliciously. “Give up! Thank you, no! You see, all my life I’ve been giving up things I couldn’t wrest from the Willoughbys or De Mille. “Not any more in mine, if you please. I should say to that misguided and frightfully sentimental young man: ‘Mend your ways, become rich and famous, and then come back and Jane will consider you.’” She picked up her gloves and walked toward the door of the bungalow. “_Au revoir_,” she said; “so good of you to have saved my life.” “At least,” observed Ormsby, sarcastically, as he hastened to open it for her, “nobody can accuse you of being inconsistent.” “Billie Scott would shriek if he heard you say so,” observed Jane, as she calmly nodded good-by. CHAPTER VIII. Billie Scott had come down for the week end, and he and Jane were motoring. “What’s up, Jane?” he remarked, suddenly, breaking a lengthy pause in the conversation. “You don’t seem like your usual self.” “Whom do I seem like?” she inquired, flippantly. Then she went on, indignantly: “Whenever I keep still for a minute or two, or in some other way act like a rational being, everyone is sure there is something up.” “I merely thought,” observed Mr. Scott, pacifically, “that there might be something worrying you.” “Nothing worries me except the careless manner in which you drive this car,” answered Jane, sharply for her. “Please put me down at Mrs. Larson’s, Billie.” “Shall I wait for you?” he asked, as he steered the machine in the direction of the cottage. “No, indeed”--determinedly--“and, by the way, I think you had better go back to town----” “But I came down to stay over Sunday,” he cried, in an injured voice. “I know,” said Jane, “but the Willoughbys like a quiet Sunday, and so do I.” Mr. Scott whistled. “Terribly considerate of the Willoughbys’ feelings,” he commented, sarcastically. “I suppose I may stop at the house for my bag?”