Did he love her? Yes, she was convinced of it—without Lola’s assurances. Then, why had he kissed her? Would he kiss a woman for the love of her and yet be unwilling to tell that love to her? Would his self-respect permit him to kiss her whom his self-respect would not permit him to marry because her father received negroes at his table? "Self-respect" would be making some peculiar distinctions in that case,—even if everything be conceded to a Southerner’s ideas of "social equality." A girl to be kissed, but not to be courted!—Elise’s face burned at the thought. No, she would not insult herself by believing Mr. Rutledge’s love had lost its chivalry—that he could deal with her on any such Tim-and-Bridget basis—there must be some other explanation.... Sometimes she desired the explanation very heartily. In their last waltz on the evening of Helen’s début, both these wrong-headed young folks had been alive to the sensations bordering on the delicious with which her heavenly mood, his unspoken love and the sensuous music had quickened their pulses. There was something, however, in the suddenness, in the completeness, with which he turned away from her which Elise resented, and which made her want to know who it was that must have been in his thoughts even while he was making that last gallant speech to her. As she turned to see, he was being welcomed by little Miss Margaret Preston, a one-year’s blossom, with such a tell-tale flutter of shy admiration, that Elise chose to look that way again after a few moments. Then he was bent down above the little lady in that manner full of all gentleness and deference Elise knew so well, and was saying something to her,—as if nothing else in all the world was worth while,—which sent a rich, red blush to over-colour the blossom’s white and pink. "So you keep in practice of your arts at all hazards," thought Miss Phillips, "even at the expense of young things like that! ... I hope that some _woman_ will teach you your lesson yet!"—and she turned to Captain Howard with a bewildering smile, and did not look at Mr. Rutledge again that evening. *CHAPTER XXVI* All this time the footman-husband was doing sentry. With the passing of the receiving party into the supper-room he had changed position and mounted guard where he could look in on the dancing. A White House policeman who had had an eye on him all evening thought his conduct unusual and walked close by to give him a searching inspection. Afterward a secret-service man thought best to look him over carefully. None of these things moved him from his purpose, however; nor did the cold wind nor a thirty minutes’ flurry of sleet unset his resolution. He watched his wife’s every glide and turn in the dance till the violins sleepily sang of _Home, Sweet Home_.