“They might crush me, if they joined forces. The one danger is a reconciliation with Mrs. Willoughby. I will see that this never occurs.” And so, with a sense of defeat clinging to his past attempts, he decided to use great care in approaching his proposed dupe, Miss Romaine Garland. For his patroness certainly was not wearing her heart upon her sleeve now. Her private sorrows busied her more than the confidential intimacy with her newest _protégé_. “She could drop me, ruin me, or trap me as easily as she finished off Hathorn,” he decided. “And the hot-headed, daring young wife, desperate in her jealousy, anxious to break Elaine Willoughby’s lines and guide her husband into the heart of the Sugar forces, she had merely broken the _convenances_, nothing more. “For only a cur dare ever hint at the stolen visits. Club and coterie would brand the man as a hound who dared to boast of such a desperate confidence in a man’s honor. “No. The Lady of the Red Rose, bright, daring and stormy-hearted like many another _fin de siècle_ New York wife, was safe.” Safe by all the laws of manhood and honor. And, in all the gay life he had led, he had only met the easy abandon of high life. The loosening of restraint of a democratic luxury. He well knew that the Dickie Doubledays and the Tottie Thistledowns did not weigh in the scale against a real flesh and blood womanhood. They were only bright, lurid beacons, warning signals on the seas of life, stranded on the reefs of human weakness, and with shoals of foolish virgins following on in their daring footsteps. When he lifted his head, the stroke of twelve brought Miss Romaine Garland, with bowed head, before him, awaiting her daily dismissal. He had never dared to use the busy hours from nine to twelve for any covert approach upon the stately girl’s confidence. There, too, was the clear-eyed Mary Kelly. The rapturous verdict of Jimmy Potter was confirmed as he glanced at the young goddess, her brown hair rippling from a pure Greek brow, her dark eyes dreaming under their lashes, and her pale, proud face at rest, with all the untroubled peace of maidenhood. In her plain, dark dress, her sculptured form was deliciously intimated. Her voice, sweet and low as the breath of forest winds, awoke his hungering curiosity. It was _temps de relâche_. Here was the very chance to begin to mold her to his will. To awake her latent love of luxury, to lead her out step by step into the confidential delights of wine and song, and to find out the shady places where Love lurks, an archer unawares. Yes. He would begin to mold this woman to his will. Vreeland desired to let the loneliness of a great city aid him in his easy approach. And to hurry slowly and be wise. He had noted the friendly cordiality of the two young women. “If the new assistant would only play into his hands, and help to outwit the pale spy.