Perhaps the career she had in mind was not entirely an operatic one, however. Very shortly afterwards, he took her home. She went rather reluctantly, glancing in at the music-room with a wistful sigh. But he was adamant. He had no idea of arousing maternal watchfulness. "I wish we had time for a little more music," she said. "We shall have a great deal more music before we are done with each other, little girl," he assured her. She answered naïvely, "But it will never be quite like this again. The next time I come, Mr. Farwell will probably be here." Channing laughed. "I can promise you he won't! Morty's an awfully good sort, and not keen on music. We shall have his music-room to ourselves whenever we like." She nestled against him in the machine confidingly, feeling the reaction of the day's excitement, and perhaps of the champagne, to which Basil Kildare's daughter had taken very kindly. "I feel so tired all of a sudden," she murmured. "Do you mind if I put my head on your shoulder?" Channing did not mind. "Make yourself comfortable!" She lay there, gazing up happily at the stars that were beginning to show in the wide curve of the sky, and singing under her breath, "When you come to the end of a perfect day--" "I wish," she said presently, half to herself, "that this day could just have gone on forever." Channing did not answer. He was beginning to congratulate himself on the self-control that kept his hands to the steering-wheel. Jacqueline, drowsy and sweet as a tired child, was rather hard to resist; but Channing had certain inconvenient ideas as to the duties of a host and a gentleman, ideas that were the sole remnant of a careful New England upbringing. She lapsed into contented silence, and they did not speak again until they reached the foot of Storm hill. There Channing stopped his car. "Wake up, and run along home now, little girl," he said, his voice more tender than he meant it to be. She roused herself and smiled at him, a wonderful, wide smile. She was very grateful to this new friend of hers for his sympathy, his understanding, grateful for the glimpse he had given her of a world hitherto unguessed, grateful for the look in his eyes at that moment. "I do wish," she said, holding out both hands, "that I knew how to--to thank you!" Channing's admirable self-control slipped a cog. He took the hands. "I can show you how to thank me," he said, quite hoarsely for a mere collector of impressions. She jerked her hands away, dimpling, and jumped out of the car. The imminent prospect of being kissed had not shocked her--in fact, she was rather surprised that she had not been kissed before. But she had her instincts of the sex that flees. So she turned and ran, neither very fast nor very far-- "Dear me!" she whispered presently against Channing's lips, "what would old Philip say to this? He told me I couldn't be too careful with strange men. I'm not being _very_ careful, am I?"