He himself could scarcely have told what thoughts were framing themselves in his mind; what words had almost formed themselves on his tongue. There are moments in life, when we live at the rate of hours; and Van Morris was certainly going the pace, mentally, for those ten seconds of silence, before the echo of the girl's voice ceased vibrating on his ear. He was vaguely conscious, some ten seconds later still, that rarely had a calm, well-posed man of the world found himself quite so dizzy, from combined effects of a quick waltz, a flower-laden atmosphere, and a rounded arm pressing only restfully upon his own. Suddenly that pressure grew sharp and decided. They stopped abruptly at a sharp turn of the walk. On a somewhat too small rustic seat, under the fruit-laden boughs of an orange tree, and comfortably screened thereby from the gleam of the tinted lantern, sat Miss Rose Wood and Mr. Andrew Browne. Their two heads were rather close together; their two hands were suspiciously distant, as though by sudden movement; and the lady's fan had fallen at her feet, most _a propos_ to the crunch of the gravel, under approaching feet. But only Blanche--less preoccupied with her thoughts than her companion--had caught the words, "Dismiss carriage--escort home," before Miss Wood's fan had happened to drop at her feet. What there might be in those words to drop the color out of rosy cheeks, or to clench white little teeth hard together, it might well puzzle one to guess. But the face that had not changed under the strong music of Van Morris's voice, now grew deadly white an instant; then flooded again with surging rush of color. But very quickly, though with perfect self-possession, Miss Wood had risen and advanced one step, to arrange Blanche's lace, with the words: "Your _berthe_ is loose, darling!" Then, as she inserted the harmless, unnecessary pin, she whispered in the shell-like ear: "_Don't_ scold me, loved one! Indeed, I was _not_ flirting. I only came out here to keep him from the--_champagne punch!_" Blanche made no reply to this whispered confidence; nor did she seem especially grateful for the grace done to her toilette. She never so much as glanced at Andy Browne. He, also, had risen, after picking up the dropped fan, with not effortless grace; and now stood smiling, with rather meaningless, if measureless, good nature upon the invaders. And Van Morris was all pose and _savoir faire_ once more. He might have been examining Blanche on her progress in algebra, for all the consciousness in his manner as he complimented Miss Wood on her peculiarly deft management of that dangerous weapon, the pin. But there was no little annoyance in the whispered aside to his friend: "Don't drink any more to-night, Andy. _Don't!_" "All right, Van; I promise," responded the other, with the most beaming of smiles. "Tell you the truth, don't think I need it. Heat of the room, you know--"