Harry's lips straightened. He did not like Willits's manner and he was somewhat shocked at his expression; it seemed to smack more of the cabin than of the boudoir--especially the boudoir of a princess like his precious Kate. He noticed, too, that the young man's face was flushed and his utterance unusually rapid, and he knew what had caused it. “They will be just what Miss Seymour wants them to be, Willits.” The words came in hard, gritting tones through half-closed lips, and the tightening of his throat muscles. This phase of the Rutter blood was dangerous. Kate was startled. Harry must not lose his self-control. There must be no misunderstandings on this the happiest night of her life. “Yes,” she said sweetly, with a gracious bend of her head--“but I do want to dance with Mr. Willits, only I don't know which one to give him.” “Then give me the Virginia reel, Miss Kate, the one that comes just before supper, and we can go all in together--you too, Harry,” Willits insisted eagerly. “See, Miss Kate--your card is still empty,” and he turned toward her the face of the one hanging to her wrist. “No, never the reel, Kate, that is mine!” burst out Harry determinedly, as a final dismissal to Willits. He lowered his voice, and in a beseeching tone said--“Father's set his heart on our dancing the reel together--please don't give him the reel!” Kate, intent on restoring harmony, arched her neck coyly, and said in her most bewitching tones--the notes of a robin after a shower: “Well, I can't tell yet, Mr. Willits, but you shall have one or the other; just leave it to me--either the reel or the schottische. We will talk it over when I come down.” “Then it's the reel, Miss Kate, is it not?” he cried, ignoring Harry completely, backing away as he retraced his steps, a look of triumph on his face. She shook her head at him, but she did not answer. She wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible. Willits had spoiled everything. She was so happy before he came, and Harry was so adorable. She wished now she had not drawn away her cheek when he tried to kiss her. “Don't be angry, Harry, dear,” she pleaded coaxingly, determined to get her lover back once more. “He didn't mean anything--he only wanted to be polite.” “He didn't want to be polite,” the angry lover retorted. “He meant to force himself in between us; that is what he meant, and he's always at it, every chance he gets. He tried it at Mrs. Cheston's the other night until I put a stop to it, but there's one thing certain--he'll stop it when our engagement is announced after supper or I'll know the reason why.” Kate caught her breath. A new disturbing thought entered her mind. It was at Mrs. Cheston's that both Willits and Harry had misbehaved themselves, and it was Harry's part in the sequel which she had forgiven. The least said about that night the better.