She resented his use of her name though he had come to using it before their disastrous evening. “Quite well,” she said, and looked at him evenly, waiting for him to pass her. He did not pass. He lingered, showing in his face the return of that avid attraction which he had felt so strongly before. She was thinner than she had been when he had seen her last and the shadows under her eyes made her face more delicate--more interesting! “I wanted to see you again and luck’s come my way. You know that I did call on you the next day at the Brownleys’ and found you’d gone. I’m afraid I acted like an awful fool that night. Didn’t I?” “Worse than that.” “But it truly wasn’t my fault. I had been drinking. I know I can’t stand the stuff. And you made me quite lose my head.” She reflected that of course it hadn’t been his fault as much as Barbara’s. And not knowing or dreaming that he was the agency which had violated the privacy of those two days at the Roadside Inn, she did not persist in great resentment. She disliked him of course but she was very idle and ready for distraction. He went on talking, eagerly. “It’s been on my mind ever since. I hated to let you think I was like that. Look here, Freda, I’ve got a free afternoon. Come in and have a cool drink somewhere with me--won’t you?” “I don’t think so,” said Freda. “Please.” “I might hurt your reputation,” she said, with a scornful little laugh. “I understand I’m causing a lot of talk among your friends.” “They always talk about every one--especially if a girl has the courage not to be conventional--” She did not trust him in the least. Nor did she like him. It was sheer ennui which made her consent. She needed company. They went to the tea room of a hotel, a cool place, furnished with abundant white willow and great palms. Freda had not been in such a place before and she, as ever, was esthetically responsive to the oasis of comfort and coolness it made in the sweltering city. Ted ordered for her--a tall glass of cool Russian tea with mint leaves and thin lettuce edged sandwiches. His solicitude for her comfort dulled the edge of whatever resentment she had towards him--she had never bothered to preserve much. “And what are you doing? Did I hear you were working--like all modern women?” “Working I was--like all women who need the money,” she answered, “but I’m not working now.” “You’re not going back to Mohawk?” She remembered part of his proposition that she need not go back to Mohawk, made some weeks ago, glancing at him guardedly, thinking with a certain amount of interest that this was the very young man who had made suggestions which should have barred him permanently from her presence. Here she was, taking his iced tea. Things were queer. She didn’t even feel particularly angry at him. There wasn’t any use pretending false rigors. “I don’t know,” she said, as she had said before. “I’m glad you left the Brownleys’ anyhow. Are you living with other friends?”