She thought rapidly. He was pressing her hard from one direction, and outside sat Loveman, a danger from another direction--watching her, ready to expose and destroy her at the slightest sign of failure. Of the two she just then feared Loveman the more. She had to put Morton off--she had to have some weapon against Loveman. An idea flashed into her brain--a desperate idea, but she was now playing a desperate game. “Won’t you please give me a hint?” he insisted. “Well,” she said, with the air of one consenting, “here is a proposition that may sound to you absurd--but then a woman is supposed to be irrational. For my own reasons I can’t now tell you what my answer is, but I’ll write it out in a letter and give it to you if you’ll promise not to read it until you have my permission. That way you’ll always have my answer with you. I may telephone or telegraph you, when I’m ready for you to open the letter.” “I promise,” he agreed. “Then I’ll write it here,” she said. The waiter brought heavy stationery, and with Mr. Morton’s fountain pen she began to write. He watched her closely until he was certain she was engrossed in her note, then stealthily he possessed himself of her handbag which she had left upon a third chair beside the table. This he cautiously opened, and into it he slipped an envelope which he took from his pocket. Then he closed the bag and returned it to its place. Mary finished her letter, thrust it into an envelope, which she sealed. This she held tentatively above the table. “On your honor as a gentleman you promise not to open this until I give you the word?” “Promise? I swear!” “And you promise not to try to be--too friendly until I give you the word?” “That comes hard--but I promise that, too.” She held out the sealed envelope. He took it, and also caught her hand. “Even if I’m not allowed to read, I’m allowed to guess--and hope,” he said softly; “and in the meantime, I’m going to call on you now and then--and for the sake of discretion, I’ll take my chances and come unannounced.” And smiling expectantly he slipped her letter into the inner pocket of his coat. A little later, when they had parted, she met Uncle George near the elevators. It was evident that he, too, had just finished lunching. “Mary,” he said solemnly, “excuse me for not having failing eyesight, as a man of incurable senility should have--but really I couldn’t help lamping the would-be gazelle you were eating with.” “What’s wrong with my doing that?” she asked defensively. “Nothing at all, dear--nothing at all: only just remember that no matter what his song is nor how soft he sings it, he’s an old goat in a canary’s skin.” “I believe I can manage him,” she returned confidently. “I hope so, Mary--I hope so. But he’s descended from one of the first families of Sodom and Gomorrah, and he’s a wise party, and he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it, and he usually gets it, too.”