"You saw Donald to-day, then?" A small silence preceded his controlled reply "Oh, yes!--I saw him." "I've just packed him off to a house-party at the Kingsleys'--to make love to Helen Carson. But perhaps he told you?" In the large mirror overhanging the table, the eyes of the once excellent friends briefly encountered. She was puzzled by the quality of his grave gaze. "He did mention a house-party, I believe. But--" Turning away toward the sitting-room, Mary filled the pause with a little laugh: "But you think he won't make love to Helen, perhaps?" The grave young man, following her, did not burst forth, even then. His restraint seemed curious, even to himself. Crossing Washington Street just now, he had been full enough of plain speech, for this young woman's good. "I've had quite enough of this!" he would say to her. "I can't and won't give up my afternoons, my life, to playing nurse to Donald. If you are satisfied to have him marry Miss Angela, well and good. If not--" and then a last warning, far sharper, far more direct, than the other. But then as he waited upon her steps, and then as he looked at her in the door, the springs of this trivial anger had seemed mysteriously to subside and dry up. No doubt the Career-Maker's own look had something to do with that. Her face in the afternoon light was seen to be thin and tired; he thought he detected faint circles under her eyes, a slightly pinched look about her nostrils. But beyond all that, beyond any question of "sympathy," or cheering-up, it seemed that the affair itself had suddenly shrunk in importance. Donald's folly, Angela's little foibles, seemed to matter less to Charles as he found himself looking again at the departing heroine of his write-ups. So he discharged his bolt with restrained formality: "It isn't that. I was only wondering whether or not you had packed him off, as yet." "Oh!--but haven't I?... I don't understand." "I happened to see him a minute ago, driving on Washington Street with your cousin--Miss Angela." It was clear that the topic had lost no interest for Mary, at any rate. She stopped short in the middle of the floor, utterly taken aback. "_Donald!_--as you came here?" And, instantly recovering from mere astonishment, her capable gaze flew to the little watch on her wrist. Charles reassured her, as dryly as possible: "However, they were headed toward the station, and going as fast as they could. I think he will make his train." "But--it's not possible, I'm afraid! His train goes at five twenty-two--it's just that now!... Ah, how _could_ he!" Producing his own valued chronometer, the young man compared it with the educator's small trinket. "I believe you're a little fast, aren't you? I'm five-eighteen. And it was just quarter past when I saw them, for I looked to see. That gave him seven minutes--" "Yes--well!--but Angela's little car is so slow--"