But Frank went on laughing. “Honey,” he said, “you’ve done quite enough—too much—already. How are you going to pay van Tuiver for what he’s done?” “Pay him, Frank?” “Of course. Do you imagine, dear, that van Tuiver’s a man to do anything without being paid? He’ll hand in his bill for services rendered, and he’ll put a high value on his services! And what will you do?” She sat, deep in thought. “Frank,” she exclaimed, “you’ve been so good—not to worry about me and that man!” He smiled. “Don’t I know what a proud lady you are?” “What’s that got to do with it?” “Honey, if I had been afraid about van Tuiver, do you suppose I’d have dared let you know it?” She looked at him, her eyes shining. “How nicely you put it!” she said. “You’re the dearest fellow in the world, a regular haven of refuge to fly to!” Then suddenly her mood became grave, and she said, “Let me tell you the truth; I’m glad I’m going away from the man and his money! It isn’t that it’s a temptation—I don’t know how to say it, but it’s a nightmare, a load on my mind. I think, ‘Oh, how much good I could do with that money!’ I think, ‘So much power, and he hasn’t an idea how to use it!’ It’s monstrous that a man should have so much, and no ideas to go with it. It’s all very well to turn your back on it, to say that you despise it—but still it’s there, it’s working all the time, day and night—and working for evil! Isn’t that true?” He was watching her with a quizzical smile. “You’re talking just like Tom!” he said. “They’ll call _you_ an Anarchist at home!” She was interested in the idea of being an Anarchist, and would have got Frank started upon a lecture on economics. But there came an interruption in the form of a knock on the door and a boy with a card. Sylvia glanced at it, and then, without a word, passed it to Frank. He read it and they looked at each other. “Well?” he asked. “Are you going to see him?” “I don’t know,” she said. “What do you say?” “I can stand it if you can,” laughed Frank; and so Sylvia ordered Mr. van Tuiver shown up. § 22 He stood in the doorway, clad in his faultless afternoon attire. Somehow he had recovered the hard brilliance, the look of the man of the world, which Sylvia had noticed the first evening. He gazed at Frank, not hiding very well his annoyance at finding a third party. “Mr. van Tuiver, Mr. Shirley,” said Sylvia. “You do not know each other, I believe.” “I know Mr. Shirley by sight,” said van Tuiver, graciously. He seated himself on a spindle-legged Louis Quinze chair—so stiffly that Sylvia thought of a purple domino. She beamed from one to the other, and then remarked, “What a curious commentary on the Harvard system! Two men studying side by side for three years, and not knowing each other!”