I went to Sophie's in the evening, having promised her, but not as soon as Tod, for I stayed to finish some Greek. Whitney went with me, in spite of his orders from home. The luncheon-party had all assembled there with the addition of Mr. and Mrs. Ap-Jenkyns. Sophie sat behind the tea-tray, dispensing tea; Gaiton handed the plum-cake. She wore a silken robe of opal tints; white lace fell over her wrists and bracelets; in her hair, brushed off her face, fluttered a butterfly with silver wings; and on her neck was the chased gold cross that had come to our rooms a few hours before. "Tod's just a fool, Johnny," said Whitney in my ear. "Upon my word, I think he is. And she's a syren!--and it was at our house he met her first!" After Mr. and Mrs. Ap-Jenkyns left, for she was tired, they began cards. Sophie was engrossing Gaiton, and Tod sat down to écarté. He refused at first, but Richardson drew him on. "I'll show Tod the letter I had from home," said Whitney to me as we went out. "What can possess him to go and buy gold crosses for her? She's married." "Gaiton and Richardson buy her things also, Bill." "They don't know how to spend their money fast enough. I wouldn't: I know that." Tod and Gaiton came in together soon after I got in. Gaiton just looked in to say good-night, and proposed that we should breakfast with him on the morrow, saying he'd ask Whitney also: and then he went up to his own rooms. Tod fell into one of his thinking fits. He had work to do, but he sat staring at the fire, his legs stretched out. With all his carelessness he had a conscience and some forethought. I told him Bill Whitney had had a lecture from home, touching Sophie Chalk, and I conclude he heard. But he made no sign. "I wish to _goodness_ you wouldn't keep up that tinkling, Johnny," he said by-and-by, in a tone of irritation. The "tinkling" was a bit of quiet harmony. However, I shut down the piano, and went and sat by the fire, opposite to him. His brow looked troubled; he was running his hands through his hair. "I wonder whether I could raise some money, Johnny," he began, after a bit. "How much money?" "A hundred, or so." "You'd have to pay a hundred and fifty for doing it." "Confound it, yes! And besides----" "Besides what?" "Nothing." "Look here, Tod: we should have gone on as straightly and steadily as need be but for _her_. As it is, you are wasting your time and getting out of the way of work. What's going to be the end of it?" "Don't know myself, Johnny." "Do you ever ask yourself?" "Where's the use of asking?" he returned, after a pause. "If I ask it of myself at night, I forget it by the morning." "Pull up at once, Tod. You'd be in time." "Yes, now: don't know that I shall be much longer," said Tod candidly. He was in a soft mood that night; an unusual thing with him. "Some awful complication may come of it: a few writs or something." "Sophie Chalk can't do you any good, Tod." "She has not done me any harm."