Was it for a woman like this that he had wasted two of the best years out of his young manhood? He used to call her beautiful, but now her face seemed so vapid. Was it just the years that had come between or had she changed, grown coarser, less ethereal? A vision of Cornelia Copley floated in his mind. Why hadn’t he known sooner that there was a girl like that some where in the world? What a fool he had been! Evadne had signalled to him and led her partner off the floor. Now they were coming to him. He wished he might vanish somewhere. Why had he come? This girl had no real need of him. She was merely enjoying herself. “What made you so late?” she challenged gaily, “We’ve been waiting supper for an age. I met an old friend tonight. Bob, meet Artie Maxwell. Come on, I’ve had the food served in my suite, and I’ve ordered lobster Newburg and all the things you used to like.” “I’ll answer for the drinks,” broke in the one called Bob, “I’ve sampled them already.” “Sh! Naughty! Naughty! Bob!” hushed Evadne with her finger on her lips. “Artie is a good little boy. He doesn’t break the law—” she laughed. “Come on, Artie, I’m nearly starved. I thought you never would get here. Ring for the elevator, Bob, please.” Maxwell’s whole being simply froze. He didn’t want to remain, and he didn’t like the other man, but he could not ask her point blank what she wanted of him in the presence of this stranger. He was gravely silent as the elevator carried them to the right floor and Evadne did the talking. But when the door opened into the apartment and showed a table set for three with flowers and lights and preparations for a feast he made a stand. “I can’t possibly stay for supper,” he declared, “I’ve dined only a little while ago, and I must leave for New York on business very early in the morning. I only dropped in to explain—” “Indeed, you are not going to leave in that way!” she flashed upon him angrily, “I told you in my note that I had something very important to tell you.” Maxwell looked at the other man politely: “If we could have just a word together now,” he said, turning back to the girl. “I really must get back to my apartment at once. I have important papers to prepare for tomorrow.” The other man turned away toward the table haughtily, with a scornful: “Why certainly,” and poured himself a glass from the flask that stood there. Maxwell turned to the angry girl: “Now, what can I do for you? I shall be very glad to do anything in my power of course.” He spoke stiffly as to a stranger. The girl perceived that her power over him was waning. Yet she was too subtle to let him see it. “I am in deep trouble,” she sighed with a quiver of the lips, “but I can’t tell it in a moment. It is a long story.” Her eyelids fluttered down on her lovely painted cheeks. She knew the line that would touch him most. “What sort of trouble?” he asked almost gently. He never could bear to see a woman suffer.