“The weather is very pleasant,” said Frank. No one could be sure whether he was imperturbable, or had missed the jest altogether. Harriet, seeing her friend’s alarming appetite and discomfort, stepped in now to save the situation. “I hope you brought me a message from your sister,” she remarked. “I am expecting one.” But Frank would have none of any such devices. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I haven’t brought it.” Sylvia was furious. Had he no tact, no social sense at all—not even any common gratitude? He ought to have waited outside, where he would have been less conspicuous; instead of sitting there, dumb as an oyster, looking at her and obviously waiting for her! Sooner or later everyone must notice. With a sudden impulse she turned to the man at her side. “I am sorry you came so late,” she said. “I am more than sorry,” he replied, brightening instantly. “I really must go home this afternoon,” she said. He was encouraged by her tone of regret. “I think I will tell you something,” he said. “Well?” “I came here on purpose to meet you. I was visiting my friends, the Allens, at Thanksgiving, and all the men there were talking of you.” This, of course, was ancient history to Sylvia. “What were they saying?” she asked—and stole a glance at Frank. “They said you’d never let a man go without hurting him. At least, not if you thought him worth while.” “Dear me!” she exclaimed, astonished and flattered. “I wonder that you weren’t afraid to meet me!” “I was amused,” answered the other. “I thought to myself, I’d like to see her hurt me.” Sylvia lifted her delicate eyebrows and gave him a slow, quiet stare, four-fifths scorn and one-fifth challenge. “Gad!” he exclaimed. “You are interesting for a fact! When you look like that!” “Not otherwise?” she inquired, now wholly scornful. “Oh, you’re not the most beautiful woman I ever saw! Nor the cleverest!” “Do not challenge me like that.” “Why not?” he laughed. “You might regret it.” “It would be a good adventure—I’d be willing to pay the price to see the game. I admire a woman who knows her business.” So the banter continued; the man displaying his cleverness and Sylvia casting upon him glances of mockery, of contempt, half veiling curiosity and interest. He, of course, being secretly convinced of his own irresistibility, was noting these glances and speculating about them, thrilled by them without realizing it, persuading himself that the girl was really coming to admire him. This was a kind of encounter which had occurred, not once, but a hundred times in Sylvia’s career, and usually it meant nothing in particular to her. But now it brought a reckless joy, because of the shock it was giving to that other man—the terrible man who sat across the way, his eyes boring into her very soul! § 18 When the luncheon was over, Sylvia made her way to Harriet Atkinson and caught her by the arm. “Harriet!” she exclaimed. “You must help me!”