As he came down from his room after hurriedly making himself presentable he met at the foot of the stairs Mr. Sanders, the managing owner of _The Mail_. He was surprised, but annoyed more than surprised—for he must be deferential to his chief,—and another precious half-hour was consumed in the effort to pull himself away without giving offence. His only compensation for the delay was in learning casually from Mr. Sanders where to seek the Phillips cottage. Finally shaking himself loose, he set out with more impatience than haste to find Elise. When he had gotten beyond the eyes of the people in the hotel he put some little speed into his steps. He was striding along rapidly when just in front of him Katherine and May Phillips came down out of the hill path into the road. "Isn’t this Katherine Phillips?" he asked, overtaking them. "Yes," said Katherine, looking doubtfully at him. "Well," said Rutledge, hesitating a moment, "you permitted me to shake hands with you once. I’m Mr. Rutledge. Do you remember?" "Yes," said Katherine, though with a shade of uncertainty in her tone. "That’s good. And who is this?" "May," said Katherine. "Why, certainly. I might have guessed." Rutledge extended his hand and the little girl took it in simple confidence. "And where are you two little ladies going, if I may ask?" "Elise sent us home," said May, permitting him still to hold her fingers. "And where is she?" Involuntarily Rutledge almost came to a halt as he asked the question. "Way up on the mountain." May waved her small arm indefinitely back the way they had come.... Rutledge’s steps became slower and slower. "Well, young ladies, I’m glad to have met you. I must be getting back. I suppose you can get home safe." "Oh, yes," said Katherine. "It’s not far." "So? Well, good-bye." "Good-bye," said the little girls. Rutledge’s steps quickened as he came to the path and turned hurriedly up the hill. * * * * * Your woman of the world is marvelous in her self-possession. In a moment of complete abandon to thoughts of her love and her lover, Elise looked about and saw the man coming to her. With her mind so intent upon him that she wavered for a moment in doubt lest his appearing was an hallucination, her manner of greeting him was the perfection of indifferent politeness—neither warm nor frosty. "Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge. What wind blows you across the world to-day?"—she seemed to know that he was just passing across the hill. With her heart-revealing letter in his pocket—nay more, committed every word to memory in his heart—Rutledge was taken aback by the casual way in which she spoke to him. He knew, of course, that she had not mailed him the letter and was not aware that he had it; yet on the basis of the letter he had conceived words he would say to her and she to him: but not a word he had prepared was possible at the moment.