“She is interesting,” was the unenthusiastic reply. “She finds the situation a little heady, naturally.” “Well, it’s absurd to see Mrs. Nixon suddenly so exercised about her. It may be catty of me, but I was very glad you took her away.” “Oh no, she took me away.” Irving’s tone was colorless. While in the Lookout he had brought the conversation round to Rosalie Vincent. He had had a vague notion that this new-fledged heiress might be the maker of Rosalie’s pathway into more congenial surroundings; but he had met cool indifference on the subject. “Good-night, Madama.” He kissed her forehead. “Good-night, Betsy. If you’re not down to speed the parting guest, I will expect to see you some day on the shore of the lake, hailing me. Have a good time.” “Oh, Irving!” began Mrs. Bruce, holding open the door he tried to close; but he interrupted. “Now get your beauty sleep, Madama. It’s all settled. Good-night”; and the door closed. The moon sailing over the Park sent a stream of light into Irving’s bed-chamber. He watched it move from log to log, from wash-stand to chiffonier, and as it reached each new object he felt a fresh access of impatience at himself for wasting these silent hours. He had seen Nixie before retiring, and that youth had jumped as joyfully at the fishing scheme as any trout at the fly. He had warmly declined to divulge his intentions to the family. “I will leave a note addressed to mother on my table,” he announced. “It will ask forgiveness and tell her that it will be of no use to try to find me.” “I have told Mrs. Bruce I’m going,” rejoined Irving. “With what result?” “Oh, she didn’t like it. She’s crazy about it here.” “That’s what I say,” returned Robert triumphantly. “There’s nothing like the note on the dresser. It has stood the test of ages.” And now Irving was wasting his time lying awake and watching the stealing moonlight. “Coffee never affected me before,” he considered impatiently; then he sat up in bed and punched the unoffending pillows into new shapes and flung himself down on them. He hoped _she_ was not awake too. He lay quite still for a minute, picturing an aureole of golden hair, pillowed in a shabby room, and stood in awe a minute before the innocence of that childlike face in slumber. Then he suddenly punched his pillow again, wishing it were the head of one who would presently waken her and call her below stairs to run patiently at the bidding of folk in a ruffianly early-morning mood. He looked at his watch in the moonlight. The wonder is that his ireful gaze did not stop the repeater at three A. M. His window commanded the mound of geyserite which made the inn famous. He leaped out of bed on a chance that the view might break the monotony.