"If you'll only get in and drive home, Miss Ridge," Snowden said humbly, and prepared to dismount. "It's a good eight miles to the boulevard and your folks will be worried." With a gesture that waved him back to his place Milly got into the buggy and the horse started. "I didn't mean--I am sorry--" "Don't speak to me ever again, Mr. Snowden," Milly flamed. She sat bolt upright in her corner of the seat, drawing her skirt under her as if afraid it might touch him. Snowden drove rapidly, and thus without a word exchanged they returned. As they came near the corner of West Laurence Avenue, Snowden spoke again,-- "I know you can't forgive me--but I hope you won't let your father know. It would hurt him and--" It was a very mean thing to say, and she knew it. Afterwards she thought of many spirited and apposite words she might have spoken, but at the moment all she could do was to fling herself haughtily out of the buggy as it drew up before the curb and without a word or glance march stiffly up the steps, where her father sat smoking his after-dinner cigar. "Why, Milly," he exclaimed, "where've you been?" She stalked past him into the house. She could hear her father ask Snowden to stop and have some supper, and Snowden's refusal. "You'll be over for a game later, Snow?" "Guess not, Horace," and the buggy drove off. Then for the first time it came over her what it would mean if she should follow her first impulse and tell her father what had happened. Mr. Snowden was not merely his most intimate friend, but in a way his superior. If she should make things unpleasant between them, it might be serious. So when her grandmother came tiptoeing into Milly's room to see why she did not come down for her supper, Milly merely said she was too tired to eat. "What's happened?" "That nasty Snowden man," Milly spluttered, "tried to kiss me and I had to--to fight him.... Don't tell father!" The little old lady was very much disturbed, but she did not tell her son. Her policy was one of discreet silence about "unpleasant things" if they could be covered up. And this was the kind of event that women were capable of managing themselves, as Milly had managed.... Milly lay awake long hours that night, her heart beating loudly, her busy mind reviewing the experience, and though her resentment did not lessen as the hours wore on and she murmured to herself,--"Horrid, nasty beast!" yet she became aware of another sensation. If--if things had been different--she--well--it--might, and then she buried her head in the pillow more ashamed than ever. At last she had learned something of the real nature of men, and never again in her long experience with the other sex was she unaware of "what things meant." Whenever a man was concerned, one must always expect this possibility. And she began to despise the weaker sex.