“Oh, I’m smiling at myself, too, for I’ve just realized what a fool I’ve made of myself in trying to stop you--an entirely unnecessary effort. What I mean, Miss Regan, is that I do not believe you could do it.” “Why not?” “Oh, I suppose you’d go through with your part of it. But if put to the test of marrying at once, Jack Morton would never go through with his part. He may be a bit infatuated; but he’s too wise to marry a woman without money--without knowing more about who she is--and without his father’s approval. No wonder Jack has been putting this off!” She flushed hotly. “I have been the one to put it off!” she cried. “Indeed,” he exclaimed with unbelief none too polite. “From the way he was dancing last night with Miss Cordova--you know, that pretty musical-comedy star--I have an idea she’s had a lot to do with the delay. And I imagine she’ll have a lot more to do with further delay. Why, you poor thing,”--he smiled irritatingly,--“to think you could hold a man like Jack Morton--you having to remain inactive, under cover--he free to roam about with all sorts of charming women--particularly with Miss Cordova!” She did not speak for a moment. She was choked with that anger on which he had so carefully counted: no person, he knew, would be so likely to act upon impulse as a proud and angered woman, before the man who has insulted her. “So you think I can’t do it!” she exclaimed. “So he’s the one who is holding back! Well, I’ll just show you! Anyhow, this thing might as well come to a head right now. And I’ll give you your chance to tell all you know about me.” She turned and took up the telephone from the writing-desk and asked for the Biltmore. Fortune favored her purpose, for in a minute she had Jack Morton on the wire. “Can you come right over, Jack,--with your car?... No, don’t bring your chauffeur; drive yourself.... Why? I’ll tell you that when you come--only bring plenty of wraps.... All right, I’ll be ready; come right up.” “He’ll be over in fifteen minutes,” she said to Clifford. “You may wait if you like. But you’ll excuse me.” She passed into her bedroom. Clifford sank rather limply into a chair. He had come to what just then seemed the supreme crisis of his life, and he was still dazed at the way he had willed that crisis to eventuate. He sat thinking--thinking; the minutes she was out were long minutes to him. Presently she reëntered. She had changed to a black velvet suit trimmed with black fur; a small fur hat sat snugly down upon her thick, dark hair; and she carried a fur motor-coat. She was an unforgettable picture for him: the high color of her dark face against the background of soft and sheeny blacks. She did not address Clifford; but there was little time for their silence to become awkward, for almost at once the bell of the suite rang. Mary went to the door, and admitted Jack Morton. The pleasant-faced young fellow looked most comfortably handsome in his great motoring-coat of raccoon.