"Yes, I know you, too," he thought. "You made that infernal speech in the Senate last year—said some good things for us, too, but on the whole it was damnable.... I’ll excuse you from talking to my wife, you race-proud bigot! You needn’t try any of your ’ardent Southerner’ on her.... Keep off the grass. She belongs to me. She is mine—mine, curse you! and all your raving speeches can’t take her away from me! ... Oh, well, talk on—yes, talk on to her. I wish to heaven _you would_ fall in love with her! That would be quite the most delicious dispensation of fate that could ever come to me—it would be too good, too good to hope for—to have you hopelessly in love with _my wife_! ... Oh, you beauty, how can any man resist you!" On the other side of the house Rutledge afterward swung past the footman’s window in several dances with Elise. "Oh," growled Hayward at last, "it’s my brother-in-law you aspire to be! Well, I don’t approve of that either. I’m surprised that your High-Mightiness condescends to my humble father-in-law’s family anyway—and how they can suffer you to set foot in the house after your deliverances I can’t see—I’d jump at the chance to pitch you out." * * * * * An idea akin to the footman’s had come that night to Elise. For other reasons she, too, wondered why she permitted Evans Rutledge to continue his friendly attentions to herself. She had half made several resolves to put an end to them. But—it is a fact noted by close observers that even the most womanly woman has some curiosity—that she is mildly attracted by a riddle—that she detests—that is, she thinks about—what she can’t understand. In the case in point Miss Elise Phillips was the woman and Mr. Evans Rutledge was the riddle. From the moment that Lola DeVale had told her that Rutledge had kissed _her_ believing her to be Elise the eldest Miss Phillips had had a growing desire to know why he should have done it. She was properly resentful that he had taken the liberty with her even by proxy—oh yes, she felt sometimes she could box his ears for his impudence.... But aside from all that, why had he kissed her? Lola had told her plainly long time ago that Mr. Rutledge had told her no less plainly that his self-respect would not permit him to confess his love again. Why then should he kiss her? ... Oh, of course, men kissed women, she knew, or at least had been led to believe, just for the downright fun of the thing: but Mr. Rutledge surely was not so common—and would not deal with _her_ on _that_ basis. No, she would not believe it of him.... If she had only been there, she thought, and had seen the way the thing was done, the answer doubtless would appear. The answer to the why was evidently locked up in the _how_. Only Lola knew the details of _how_. Elise had finally decided that she might as well know them also.