"You mustn't let me keep you," he said, as he saw she still looked at Gibson's retreating figure and that an expression of astonishment was puzzling her face. "It was wrong of him--I do not understand," she said. She laughed lightly. "But you must not believe him a villain. It was so unlike him. I'm sure he will tell you so himself before you leave." The hum of starting motors came to them and through the trees John saw the first of the long line of automobiles go up the driveway toward the house. The fete was ending; the guests were leaving. He remembered why he was there; his appointment to meet Mrs. Randolph's secretary. They started across the lawn. "Mrs. Randolph will believe I'm lost," she said. "I shouldn't be surprised if she has already sent someone to look for me." "I hope----" he began. "Yes." "I hope you do not feel I have been bold," he said. "It was rude and presumptuous for me to say the things I did to you. Please try to understand and forgive me." "If I say I believe I understand and that there is nothing to forgive, will you think me vain?" she asked. They reached the driveway. Luxurious sedans and limousines with liveried chauffeurs blocked their crossing. She turned to him, her hand extended. "Good afternoon," she said. "Sometime, soon perhaps, if you wish, we will meet again; you will hear from me, because--because I--think you meant it." She added the final words lightly and with a smile. "I did," he said. She turned to the driveway. An automobile stopped and she crossed over in the gap of the line of motors it made for her. The machine moved forward again, blocking any sight of her as she went on toward the house. The list of guests and the amount of money netted by the fete he received from Mrs. Randolph's secretary in neatly typewritten lists. The last of the motors were chugging up the driveway as he left. He walked out into the street, toward the car line, bound for his office. As he waited at the corner for his car a low, rakish roadster stopped before him. He heard a creaking of brakes and saw the back wheels of the machine lock as it came to a stop. He looked up. Gibson was at the wheel, Consuello at his side. "Mr. Gallant," Gibson called. John stepped forward. Gibson leaned toward him, his hand outstretched. "Miss Carrillo has reminded me I made rather a fool of myself back there at the table," he said, smiling. "Perhaps you may understand the position I was in. I offer my apologies." John gripped his hand. "Thanks," said Gibson. "You understand how it is." "Yes," assented John, without really knowing what his answer meant. "Sorry there isn't room to give you a lift to town," Gibson said, racing the motor and shifting the gear. As the machine moved away John saw Consuello smile and there was an echo of gladness in his heart.