Teddy paused before it. He recognized the man who had brought Desire home last night--the man who had kept her from him. “To my dearest Girl.” He read and re-read it. Was that the secret of her indifference--that she was in love already? But wouldn’t Vashti have warned him? He stared his defiance. The more inaccessible she became to him, the more he felt the need of her. Something of the valor and bright hardness of the day had entered into his soul. He was like those tall buildings, climbing more recklessly into the blue every time the sky receded from them. He didn’t care who claimed her. He was glad that he would have to fight. She was his by the divine right of the dreamer, and had been his for years. At whatever sacrifice he would win her. Inconsistently, the more difficult she became to him, the more certain he grew of success. “Hulloa, King Arthur! Getting impatient? I’ll soon be> with you.” He stepped to the door and looked out into the passage. “Impatient! Of course I’m impatient. Where are you?” Her laugh floated back. “Where you’re not allowed to come. You can’t complain; I told you I wouldn’t be dressed till twelve.” “It’s nearer one by now.” “Is it? But you’ve nothing to do. If you hunt about, you’ll find some cigarettes. Make yourself happy.” He had hoped she would continue the conversation; but her voice grew secret as she whispered to her maid. He heard cupboards and drawers being opened and shut, a snatch of song, and, every now and then, the infectious gayety of her laughter. He came back into the room and smiled at the photo on the piano. “She mayn’t be in love with me yet, but she’s certainly not in love with you,” he thought. Then he stood gazing at his unresponsive rival, wondering how much he could tell. He was still intent upon the portrait when she danced across the threshold, swinging her gloves. “Taking a look at Tom? Be careful; you’ll make him jealous.” She slipped her small hand into his. “I can’t tell you how good it is to see you.” “D’you mean that--that you’re really glad?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief, but she said demurely: “Why shouldn’t I mean it? I’m always glad to see my friends.--And now, don’t you think you’ve held my hand long enough? See how lonely it looks, just as if it were asking me to put on its glove.” She tripped over to the window and gazed out. “Isn’t it glorious?--And I feel so happy--so full of life, so young.” Her back was towards him; she felt him drawing nearer. “I ought to tell you about my hands before we know each other better. They have names. The right one is Miss Self-Reliance, and the left Miss Independence. They’re both of them very ambitious and--” she swung round, lowering her eyes--“and they don’t like being held.” He glanced at the photo on the piano. “Did no one ever hold them?”