We immediately huddled on our wraps, anxious to be gone and spare Sylvia possible embarrassment, in spite of her protestations. As No. 2 led the way to the door a gentleman crossed the hall from the card-room and greeted Sylvia with easy familiarity. He was about forty, a rather colourless blonde, with clean shaven face of the type so commonly seen now that it might belong equally either to footman or master. His eyes had a slantwise expression, but his dress was immaculate. Strolling carelessly by the girl's side I heard him say, "I came to see if you needed coaxing; some of the ladies are green over their losses, so have a care for your eyes." Then he laughed at the wide-eyed look of wonder she gave him as he begged a violet for his coat. But Sylvia drew herself up, full an inch above him, and replied, decidedly, but with perfect good nature, "No, those violets are a message from Shakespeare,--one does not give such away." "That is Monty Bell," said Miss Lavinia, tragically, as soon as the door closed. "Is there anything the matter with him except that his colouring is like a summer squash?" I asked. "He's been divorced by his wife, and it was her mother that was my friend, not his, as Mrs. Latham hinted. I know the story; it makes me shiver to see him near Sylvia." Then Miss Lavinia drew into a shell, in which she remained until we reached home. Meanwhile, as we drove in silence, I remembered that Richard's rubber boots leaked, and I wondered if Martha Corkle would discover it, or if he was paddling about getting his feet wet and bringing on a sore throat. But when I got home Evan said he had sent the boots to the bicycle tire mender's the morning I came away. It was the third night of my stay, and he would not have known what to make of it if I had not raised some sort of a ghost. * * * * * The sidewalks being clear, we dined at the Laurent, giving Miss Lavinia a resurrection of French cooking, manners, women, ogling, ventilation, wine, and music. Then we took her, on the way home, to see some horrible wax figures, listen to a good Hungarian band, and nearly put her eyes out with a cinematograph show of the Coronation and Indian Durbar. Finishing up by brewing French chocolate in the pantry and stirring it with stick bread, and our guest, in her own house, went to bed fairly giggling in Gallic gayety, declaring that she felt as if she had spent the evening on the Paris boulevards, that she liked our New York, and felt ten years younger. VI ENTER A MAN