"What?" The girl smiled flittingly and ruefully. "Oh, there was a reason for that, too." "What was it?" She of the Titian hair eyed him thoughtfully and shook her head. "Perhaps I'll tell you some other time," she said. "Why not now?" Anthony snapped. "You wouldn't be any happier for knowing, just now," the girl said mysteriously. Her pajamaed legs, swathed in the mighty bathrobe, crossed comfortably Turkish fashion, and she considered Anthony with her calm, quizzical eyes--and of a sudden an overwhelming helplessness surged through Anthony Fry and he had more than a little difficulty in concealing the slight tremble of his limbs. For if the boy David had been a nervous, frightened creature, the lady who had succeeded him was almost anything else! David had been timorous and given to shrinking; the girl was all quiet assurance. David's eyes had been frightened and round; these eyes were just as round, but, as much as anything else, they seemed to express mild amusement at Anthony's discomfiture. And that was the way of the whole sex, Anthony reflected bitterly. Having enmeshed mere man and entangled him, hands, feet, and everything else, it was woman's habit to sit and stare calmly, just as this one was sitting and staring, wordlessly inquiring just what he meant to do about it. "Who are you?" he asked dizzily. "Um," said the girl meditatively. "Well, if you find it necessary to call me anything, call me--er--Mary." "Mary what?" "Just Mary." "But your other name----" "You wouldn't be any happier for knowing that either," the girl assured him serenely. "What on earth does that mean?" Anthony demanded, with almost a return of his old imperious manner. Mary gazed fixedly at him for a moment, deeply and inscrutably and with that in her eyes which, although he could not name it, caused Anthony's chilly blood to drop several more degrees. "Don't ask me what it means, because I might tell you, and you wouldn't be any happier for knowing _that_!" the girl said quietly. "But the Frenchwoman?" Anthony essayed, lunging off in another direction. "Who was she?" "Well, she was my personal maid--at least it won't hurt you to know that much," Mary dimpled. "I sent for her and asked her to bring my bag and--there's the bag." One pink foot indicated it, and for many seconds Anthony's dumfounded eyes stared at the thing. There was an intricate monogram on one end, which he could not decipher; otherwise, it impressed him. The bag was a very, very expensive bit of luggage and his failing heart thumped a trifle harder. No stray young woman owns a bag like that and a French maid to carry it around; no adventurous female waif of the type one might expect to find wandering about in masculine raiment speaks in the unquestionably cultivated tone that Mary was using now. And no clear-eyed, clear-skinned young female friend of Mary's type ever belonged to the demi-monde!