"I can't think," he said, unable to take his eyes off her, "what in the world you are talking about." She laughed with something of an effort, and sat down exquisitely in a cruel cane chair. "Well, then--_do_ you forgive me for taking possession of your house like this? You will, won't you? I can't be silly, now, and pretend not to know you. But really I never dreamed that you--" "Is it possible," he broke in stormily, "that you are mistaking me for that insufferable Stanhope?" She looked at him startled, dumfounded; in her eyes amazement mingled with embarrassment; then her brow wrinkled into a slow, doubtful smile. "Oh-h--I beg your pardon! I--did n't understand. But is it my fault that I've seen your picture a hundred times? Yes, I suppose it is; for, at the risk of making you crosser still, I'll confess that I--I cut it out and framed it." Varney leaned his elbow on the mantel and faced her. "You have made a mistake," he said. "I am not Mr. Stanhope." "You mean," she laughed, very pretty and pink, "that it is no affair of mine that you are." A kind of desperation seized him. It was evident that she did not believe him, just as Coligny Smith had not believed him, and the plump young woman of the grocery who had used his Christian name. He was almost ready not to believe himself. However, there were cards in his pocket; he got one of them out, and coming nearer, handed it to her. "My name is Laurence Varney," he said mechanically, for that slogan seemed fated to meet skeptics everywhere. "I am from New York and have happened to come up here on a friend's yacht to--to spend a few days. You have made a mistake." She took the card, held it lightly in her gloved hand, bowed to him with mocking courtesy. "I am very glad to meet you--Mr. Laurence Varney! I--I am from New York, too, and have happened to come up here on the New York Central with my mother to spend a few years. And I live in a white house half a mile down the road, where I ought to have been an hour ago. And I am Mary Carstairs, who has read all your books and thinks that they--Oh"--she broke off all at once: for there was no missing the look in his astounded face. "What in the world have I said now?" "You--can't be--_Mary Carstairs_!" he cried. "Is--that so terrible?" she laughed, a little uncertainly. CHAPTER VII IN WHICH MARY CARSTAIRS IS INVITED TO THE YACHT "CYPRIANI" But he recovered in a flash, aware of the criticalness of that moment, and met her bewildered gaze steadily. "Terrible? Certainly not. Your name surprised me a little. That was all. I thought, you see, that you were somebody else." "Yes? Who?" "I really--do not know exactly. Do forgive my stupidity, won't you? As I say, I was just a little surprised." "You would explain to a man," she said, "and don't you think you ought to to me? If you did not know exactly who you thought I was, why should my name surprise you so?"