When an outrage is offered to you by one of the loveliest beings that you have ever beheld, with the face of a higher order of angels, and a look straight into your eyes, so eloquent of simplicity and trustfulness—what more can you do than to look uncomfortable? And Sylvia, of course, did not help him. She just continued to gaze and smile. He got his breath and stammered, “Really—I think—if you will permit me——” He paused, and then drew himself up. “I think that I had best introduce myself.” “I am willing to accept the rebuke,” said Sylvia, “without putting you to that trouble.” She saw that he did not even understand. He went on—his manner that of a man laboring with a very serious purpose. “I really think that I should introduce myself.” “Are we not having a pleasant time without it?” she countered. This, of course, was a complete blockade. He stood at a loss; and meantime Sylvia waited, with every weapon ready and every sense alert. “I beg pardon,” he said, at last, “but may I ask you something? I’ve a feeling as if I had met you before.” “I am sure that you have not,” she said, promptly. “You are from the South, are you not? I have been in the South several times.” But still she would not give an inch; and he became desperate. “Pardon me,” he said, “if I tell you my name. I am Douglas van Tuiver.” Now if there was ever a moment in her life when Sylvia needed her social training, it was then. He was looking into her face, watching for the effect of his announcement. But he never saw so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Sylvia said, quietly, “Thank you,” and waited to load her batteries. She had meant harm to him before. Imagine what she meant now! “It is an unusual name,” she observed, casually. “German, I presume?” “Dutch,” said he. “Ah, Dutch. But then—you speak English perfectly.” “My ancestors,” he said, “came to this country in sixteen hundred and forty.” “Ah!” exclaimed Sylvia. “How curious! Mine came the same year. Perhaps that was where we met—in a previous incarnation.” Then, after a pause, “Van Tuivel, did you say?” She could feel his start, and she waited breathlessly to see what he would do. But there were the soft, red-brown eyes and the look of utter innocence—how _could_ he gaze into them and doubt? “Van Tuiver,” he said, gravely. “Douglas van Tuiver.” “Oh, I beg your pardon,” Sylvia responded. “Van Tuiver. I have it now.” She waited, feeling sure that he could not bear to leave it there. And so it proved. “The name is well known in New York,” he remarked. “Ah,” she said, “but then—there are so _many_ people in New York!” Again there was a pause, while he took thought. Sylvia remarked, helpfully, “In the South, you see, everybody knows everybody else.” “I am not at all sure,” said he, stiffly, “that I should find that a desirable state of affairs.” “Neither should I,” said she—“in New York.”