But Michael did not look in the least humiliated as he entered the luxurious library where Starr had chosen to receive him. His manner was grave and assured, and he made no sign of the tumult it gave him to see her thus in her own home once more where all her womanliness and charm were but enhanced by the luxury about her. He came forward to greet her just as if she had not cut him dead the very last time they met; and Starr as she regarded him was struck with wonder over the exalted beauty of manhood that was his unique dower. “Thank you for letting me come,” he said simply. “I will not intrude long upon your time—” Starr had a strange sensation of fear lest he was going to slip away from her again before she was willing. “Oh, that is all right,” she said graciously; “won’t you sit down. I am always glad to do a favor for a friend of my childhood.” It was a sentence she had rehearsed many times in her mind, and it was meant to convey reproach and indifference in the extreme, but somehow as she fluttered into a great leather chair she felt that her voice was trembling and she had miserably failed in what she had meant to do. She felt strangely ashamed of her attitude, with those two dear soulful eyes looking straight at her. It reminded her of the way he had looked when he told her in the Florida chapel long ago that nobody but herself had ever kissed him—and she had kissed him then. Suppose he should be going to ask her to do it again! The thought made her cheeks rosy, and her society air deserted her entirely. But of course he would not do that. It was a crazy thought. What was the matter with her anyway, and why did she feel so unnerved? Then Michael spoke. “May I ask if you know a man by the name of Stuyvesant Carter?” Starr looked startled, and then stiffened slightly. “I do!” she answered graciously. “He is one of my intimate friends. Is there anything he can do for you that you would like my intercession?” Starr smiled graciously. She thought she understood the reason for Michael’s call now, and she was pleased to think how easily she could grant his request. The idea of introducing the two was stimulating. She was pondering what a handsome pair of men they were, and so different from each other. But Michael’s clear voice startled her again out of her complacence. “Thank God there is not!” he said, and his tone had that in it that made Starr sit up and put on all her dignity. “Indeed!” she said with asperity, her eyes flashing. “Pardon me, Miss Endicott,” Michael said sadly. “You do not understand my feeling, of course!” “I certainly do not.” All Starr’s icicle sentences were inherited from her mother.